Wait.
The description strikes recognition, making his eyes widen as he recalls each characteristic.
Pink hair.
Double swords.
Mismatched eyes.
The Omega from the forest.
The one who killed six men in under a minute.
The one who pressed a blade to my throat and told me she was going to kill Eastman before anyone else could.
That'sher?
That's the pen pal?
That's the Omega Sage bonded with?
"She smells like cotton candy," Jett adds, and there's something in his voice that sounds almost reverent.
Blaze curses.
"WAIT! The dual-bladed Omega who saved Kai just now from the gang?"
We round the final corner?—
And skid to a stop.
The crowd materializes first.
A mass of people gathered in front of a townhome complex, their faces illuminated by flickering orange light. Firefighters in heavy gear are rushing toward the building, hoses unfurling, water starting to spray against flames that have already consumed the lower floor.
The townhome is on fire.
Hertownhome.
Number 13.
Sage has frozen in place, his body rigid with shock, that same stillness I've seen in trauma victims just before they shatter.
Through the bond—the one I've been trying to ignore, the one that's been feeding me emotional static all day—I feel his terror.
His guilt.
His desperate, agonizing hope that she's not inside.
I stomp toward the scene, grabbing the arm of the nearest firefighter.
"What happened?"
My voice carries the authority of someone who expects answers.
He flinches—recognizes something in my tone, maybe, or just responds to the dominance in my posture.
"Arson. Someone set the fire deliberately. We got here fast—station's just down the street—but the damage is significant."
