Aldron’s voice cracks like a whip.“Briana, don’t.”
I ignore him.I am getting good at that.
Knox’s chest heaves.His hands flex at his sides, fingers thicker now, nails darkening into blunt claws.His shirt pulls tight across his back like it might split.Blood trails down one side of his face, but he doesn’t seem to feel it.
He looks at me like I am the only thing in the room.Maybe the only thing in the world.
That should terrify me, and it does.But it also steadies me.Because I know what the collar means to me, I know the memory it pulled loose.I know the way my body wants to leave, wants to curl into itself and disappear.
But I also know what it means to him.Failure.A promise from the monsters who touched me that they can still reach through walls and wards and people far stronger than me.
Knox is not only angry.He is afraid.
For me.
Of himself.
What happens if the beast decides safety requires destruction?I take one step forward.
Cruz swears.“Briana.”
“Don’t,” Aldron says.
Akasha whispers my name, and Knox snarls, but not at me.At everyone else.
The sound vibrates through the bar, and every glass behind me trembles.I should stop.I should listen to the supernatural creatures who know more about Minotaur rage than I do.
Instead, I take another step, and Knox’s entire body locks.
“Briana.”His voice is barely a voice.It’s gravel and blood and restraint, breaking one thread at a time.“Stay back.”
“No.”The word leaves me quietly.
His nostrils flare.“Please.”
There it is.That plea.The same one from last night.The one that stopped me when his eyes went black, and his fist broke the brick instead of doing worse.
Please.
My throat aches, and I stop two feet away, close enough to feel the heat coming off him, but not close enough to touch.Not yet.
“You told me my voice reaches you,” I say.
His jaw works.The horns make him look brutal.Mythic.Something that belongs in nightmares and old stories whispered in the dark.But his eyes are on mine.And he is listening.
Barely ...but barely is enough.
“My voice reaches you,” I repeat.“So listen to it.”
He exhales through his nose, harsh and uneven.The collar gleams behind him, and my gaze flickers to it.Bad idea.
Memory snaps like a trap waiting for something innocent.Cold hands at the back of my neck.Buckle pulled tight.Laughter.Someone is telling me not to fight because fighting makes the blood sour.
My knees threaten to fold.
Knox sees that, too, and a roar rips from him and the bar shakes.
He spins toward the box, and I know, I know, if he reaches it, there will be nothing left of the collar, the box, possibly the bar, and maybe anyone foolish enough to get in his path.
