“Are settling. Because he can see me.”
The vehicle lurches. Hard. Someone swears.
“What the hell?”
“Rough terrain. We’re off the main road.”
The device on the ceiling flickers. One second, maybe less. But the buzz drops, and the pressure behind my skull eases, and in that space my wolf moves.
The hum comes up from my chest the way it did in the corridor. Not on purpose—a reaction. The straps, the voices, the sealed air. Something below my sternum builds and pushes outward. The air inside the vehicle thickens. The metal walls groan. A monitor sparks.
“What the fuck?!”
“Suppressor’s failing—”
“Reset it—”
“I’m trying—”
She’s reaching toward me. One of the handlers grabs her arm. “Move! Now.”
She pulls against his grip. “Don’t—”
He drags her backward.
Away from me.
Hard.
His fingers dig into her arm, and her face tightens with pain. She makes a strangled little sound that never becomes a full cry.
My wolf doesn’t think.
The ceiling device gives a sharp, dying whine.
The air inside the vehicle snaps tight.
The chest strap goes first, the synthetic popping apart like a dry branch. Then the left wrist. Then the right. My body bows off the transport bed, and pain opens behind my sternum, white and sudden, as if something buried there has torn loose from its moorings as the pressure builds.
I don’t care.
The handler has her arm.
He’s fucking hurting her!
Someone is shouting. The vehicle swerves. Equipment crashes from the racks.
I don’t hear any of it.
The ankle straps give when I wrench my legs sideways. I’m off the bed before my legs remember how to hold me, and the handler turns just in time to see me coming.
He doesn’t let go of her arm.
That’s a mistake.
My clawed hand closes around his throat and squeezes. He goes limp. His hand falls away from her as I release him, and he drops.
There’s chaos. Shouting. The driver braking. The other handler reaching for something on his belt.
