Fight, Ridge,Brylee’s voice begs, a distant echo.
It’s okay,Teddie’s voice answers, clear and close.Just rest. You’ll feel better.
I don't want to rest. I want to fight. I want to live. I want to find my mate.
But as the darkness finally claims me, the last image burned into my mind isn't just the blonde hair and blue eyes of my mate.
It’s her…and him…and I can’t tell one from the other.
12
BRYLEE
The weightof the pistol in my hand is the only thing that feels real. It’s cold, solid, and heavy—a grounding force against the chaos screaming through my veins.
The chain is gone, but its ghost lingers, a phantom pressure around my ankle. Every muscle in my body screams in protest, a symphony of aches and sharp, stabbing pains from the beating I endured, but I push it all down. Pain is a luxury. Fear is a liability. I am a weapon, and a weapon does not feel.
I move through the corridor, a whisper of death in the gloom.
My bare feet are silent on the gritty concrete, a skill honed in the dance courses I took last year at Darling Academy.
The bodies of the alphas I manipulated are slumped against the walls, dead, their faces frozen in masks of fury and surprise. I don’t look at them. They were obstacles, and I removed them. Now they are just scenery.
The air grows colder as I ascend a flight of metal stairs, each step echoing with a faint clang that I muffle by keeping to the edges. The scent of blood fades, replaced by the sterile, metallicsmell of old machinery and diesel fuel. I’m in the belly of the beast now, the operational heart of this warehouse prison.
Up ahead, a pair of double doors stands ajar, a sliver of light cutting through the darkness.
Voices drift out, low and conversational. Two of them.
I press myself against the cold brick wall, flattening my body into the shadows. My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat, but my hand is steady on the grip of the pistol. I breathe in, slow and deep, centering myself.
I count to three, then explode through the doorway.
Noth betas, dressed in tactical gear, have their backs to me. They turn, their expressions shifting from boredom to shock. It’s all the time I need.
The pistol bucks twice in my hand. The reports are deafening in the confined space, a sharp crack that’s followed by the dull thud of bodies hitting the floor. I don’t stop to look at their faces. I’m already moving, scanning the next hallway, the scent of lead coiling through the air.
Another guard appears at the far end, an alpha this time, his head snapping up at the sound. His nostrils flare as he catches my scent, and a snarl rips from his throat. His eyes glaze over with the same primal lust I used to my advantage before, but this time there’s no clever trick, no panties in a vent. There is only the cold, hard finality of the gun in my hand.
He charges, a mindless beast.
I raise the pistol, aligning the sight with his center mass. My training takes over, my body moving with an economy of motion that bypasses thought. The shot is clean.
He stumbles, a look of profound confusion on his face, before collapsing in a heap ten feet from me.
I step over his body without breaking stride. I am not the princess in the tower anymore. I am the monster they created, and I am coming for them all.
The main floor of the warehouse is a cavernous space, filled with looming shelves of crates and the hulking shapes of dormant vehicles. The air is thick with the smell of oil and metal. I move from cover to cover, a shadow flitting between the steel monoliths.
I can hear more voices, more movement. They know I’m here. The hunt is on.
I see a group of three huddled around a map spread across a crate. I don’t give them the chance to react. Three more shots. Three more bodies. The efficiency of it is chilling, a testament to the brutal effectiveness of my education.
They taught me to seduce, to persuade, to manipulate from the shadows. They never told me what to do when the shadows were all I had left.
A movement to my left.
I swing around, hair whirling, my finger already tightening on the trigger, but I stop myself. It’s a beta, but he’s not armed. He’s older, his face lined with weariness and a look of grim resignation. He doesn’t snarl or charge. He simply stands there, watching me, his hands raised slowly in a gesture of surrender.
