Creed’s eyes move to Rafael. “Stand down. Both of you. This doesn’t have to end badly.”
“It’s already bad, you bastard,” I start. “If you think—”
Rafael’s hand finds mine. The grip is tight, and I sense his wolf in it, fingers thick, knuckles swollen. The power reverberates through the contact.
“You have our answer,” he responds. “Move your vehicles.”
“Not going to happen, 3-0-6-7-0,” says Creed. “Come quietly, and no one has to get hurt.”
Rafael bristles beside me at the sound of the number. “I said you have our answer.” His voice is little more than a growl.
“I don’t have time for this.” Creed nods at the operatives alongside him.
They move. The larger one starts the shift first, air around his body rippling, bones cracking, scales pushing through skin. His frame expands. Wings form, dark, wet, unfolding from shoulder blades that have doubled in width. His jaw extends into something that could bite through the van’s roof. He pushes off the asphalt, heavy, ugly, those wings sending grit swirling across the road.
“Shit,” I mutter.
Rafael lifts his free hand.
The sound comes from his chest, low, focused, a pulse I feel in my teeth before I hear it. It hits the dragon mid-wingbeat. The massive body jerks. The wings fold wrong, crumpling inward. The dragon drops and hits the road hard enough to crack the asphalt. Scales scrape across wet pavement. The body slides, rolls, and comes to rest against the bumper of the nearest SUV. Alive. Moving. But grounded.
Creed’s jaw tightens. “You think I’m impressed with your theatrics?” he snorts. He signals again. Two more operativesstep forward; not dragons, but armed. Rifles come up. Safeties click. They fire.
The first volley hits the van behind us. Glass shatters. Metal punches inward. I duck, dragging Rafael with me because he doesn’t seem concerned about getting out of range.
Rafael’s hand snaps out. The hum in his chest drops an octave, and a wall of sound rolls off him like a shockwave. The second volley hits it mid-air. The rounds stop dead, flattened against nothing, and clatter to the asphalt like spent shells.
The shooters stare.
Rafael doesn’t give them time to react. The frequency broadens. The road surface ripples. Both men lose their footing, rifles skittering across wet asphalt. One hits his head on the way down. The other rolls, dazed.
Creed barks something sharp. Two more dragons emerge, not shifting fully, not yet. They spread out, flanking us. The grounded dragon drags himself upright, shaking off the impact. He doesn’t charge. He waits.
They’re learning.
Rafael’s breathing is rough. His hand is still on mine, but the grip is looser, the wolf receding enough for the man to think. His eyes track the dragons, the SUVs, Creed. The hum from the road surface is a constant thrum underfoot, but it’s not destructive. Not yet. He’s holding back.
“I just want the asset,” Creed says. No warmth. “The girl can walk.”
“The girl is right here. And she’s not walking anywhere without him.” I glare back at him.
Creed ignores me. His focus is on Rafael. “You know what you are. You know what happens if you don’t comply. The conditioning—”
“Fuck the conditioning,” Rafael growls.
Creed blinks.
The dragons move.
Two of them shift simultaneously. Practiced. Efficient. One takes to the air immediately, wings beating hard against the wet dark. The other stays low, lunging across the asphalt on four legs, claws gouging trenches in the road.
Rafael doesn’t let go of my wrist.
He lifts both hands—my arm rising with his—and the power comes out in a wave. It hits the grounded dragon mid-lunge. The dragon stops like it’s run into a cliff face. Scales crack. Bones groan. It tries to push forward, muscles straining, but the sound folds around it and squeezes.
The dragon collapses. On its side. Chest heaving. Alive, but broken.
The airborne one dives.
