Stadium security tried to intercept. One officer got in Raaze’s face, yelling about protocol and containment. Raaze didn’t slow down. He shoulder-checked the male hard enough to send him spinning into his partner. The Exiles flowed around him like water around rocks.
They hit the lift bank.
But there were no cars. Raaze hissed between his teeth as he watched the numbers above the doors crawl down. Too slow. All the cars were stuck on the upper levels, no doubt jammed with spectators.
“Stairs,” he snapped, slamming through the door.
He took the stairs three at a time. His legs burned. Every bruise and cut from the match screamed at him, but adrenaline drowned most of it out.
The ferals were right behind him, their breaths coming in harsh grunts that matched his own.
Fourth level. Fifth. Sixth.
R’Tev guards met them in the corridor outside the private box level. Eight of them in matching black armor, positioned to block the approach.
The fight was short, brutal, and ugly.
Raaze took the first male down with an elbow to the throat, then used the body as a shield while he closed on the second. No flashy moves. Just economy of violence.
He snarled and lashed out. The third took a strike to the knee, then a blade-hand to the neck, and slowly toppled over backward.
The Exiles did the rest of the damage. Daavyn and Sorrath tore through the rest. Blood sprayed the walls as a scream was choked off. Either that, or the throat making the noise was no longer attached to a working pair of lungs.
Raaze didn’t know and didn’t care. Even though he was running on fumes and adrenaline and the certainty that if he was too slow, he was going to walk into that box and find her dead.
His focus narrowed on the door in front of them. A security door, it was bolted and secured from the inside.
Draanth that.
Running, he slammed into it. It shuddered, but held.
Daavyn appeared beside him, breathing hard, blood running from a cut above his eye. No words. Just a nod.
They ran and hit it together. It flexed, but held.
They hit it again, and something inside gave with a metallic shriek. The panel burst inward, hinges screaming.
Raaze went through first, barreling through the gap. He stepped inside, body already coiled for whatever came next.
He found her.
Cait stood in the middle of the luxury box, bruised to hell and back. Her lip was split, and the side of her face was already darkening into a deep purple. Her jacket had torn at the shoulder, revealing the edge of what looked like a nasty cut.
But she was still standing and held the nastiest-looking energy pistol he’d ever seen, leveled steadily at the R’Tev clan leader in the corner.
The weapon was big and ugly. He wasn’t familiar with the type, but it looked like it could punch a hole in a shuttle’s hull.
Vikrav’s father kneeled on the expensive carpet, his hands behind his head. Blood trickled from a gash at his temple as he stared at the muzzle of Cait’s weapon like it was the only thing in his reality.
Two R’Tev guards lay slumped near the door, unconscious or worse. He didn’t particularly care which.
Cait didn’t lower her arm when they came through the door. She cut her eyes toward him for a split second, just long enough to register he wasn’t another threat, then locked back on her targets. Her grip stayed rock-steady even though the rest of her trembled. Adrenaline crash already setting in, he guessed, or pain. Probably both with the state of her.
“Took you long enough,” she said, her voice cracking on the last word. Not a lot, not enough that someone who didn’t know her would notice. But he knew her.
The center of Raaze’s chest ached as relief and terror wrapped around pride in his female, and all tried to claw their way out of his ribs at the same time.
“Had to fight my way through the fan club outside.” He gestured at the unconscious guards. “Looks like you handled yours.”
