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Panic slams into me painfully, like a knife through the ribs. All of a sudden, breathing feels impossible.

Father’s back.

Father’s back, and⁠—

Caelan’s in the house.

My knees almost buckle, but I catch myself on the door frame before I hit the ground. I pull up my shaking body as terror sings through my nerves.

My Omega whines, curling into a ball and hiding. The shame is nearly overwhelming.

Oh gods! Oh, Fates! What have I done? I was supposed to warn him! I was supposed to protect him! I failed!

I don’t make a conscious decision to move, but fear and the Bond choose for me.

Ripping open the doors to my room, I step into the hall, and run.

My bare feet slap against the cold marble as I fly down the hallway, my cardigan streaming behind me like wings. My breaths become shallow gasps that burn my lungs as fight for air through my panic.

Run! Run, Caelan! Get out!

I’m screaming down the Bond, sending frantic, terrified pleas and begging him to listen to me.

Fates… Fates. I can’t breathe.

I’ve never felt so weak in my life. Three days without food means my body is barely hanging on, but I push all of that down and keep running. My legs are shaking, and my fingers start tingling, but I don’t care. It doesn’t matter.

Nothing matters except getting to Caelan.

I can feel Caelan’s confusion like it’s my own. He doesn’t understand what’s going on. Doesn’t know what’s coming.

I’m halfway down the hall when my dream slams into me with all the force of a prophecy.

My mother, trapped behind silver bars as wings rip from her back, my desperate, tear-filled, soundless pleas that she can’t hear, no matter how loud I scream. The words I repeated over and over in my dream echo through my skull before surging straight down our Bond.

A warning.

A prediction I couldn’t understand until now.

Fly! Fly far away! Don’t ever return!

I careen into the banister at the top of the stairs, and my legs finally give out. I hit the floor hard, knees cracking against marble, sending pain radiating through my shins. Another whine escapes, but I push back the pain.

I taught myself how to focus through pain years ago.

Using the railing as leverage, I frantically haul myself up. My hands won’t stop shaking. My hair is a wild, tangled mess hanging in my eyes and blocking my view. I shove it out of my face, and my gaze snaps to the foyer below me.

My world slams to a stop.

There, standing in the middle of my father’s opulent foyer, surrounded by the gaudy trappings of wealth, is Caelan.

He has his hands up, palms facing outward in surrender. His muscles are coiled tight, every inch of his body is tense. Despite that, his expression remains stoic and calm. Father is in front of him, wearing a smug smile of satisfaction on his cruel face. And he’s not alone.

His men, at least ten of them, are positioned in a circle around both Alphas, guns steadily trained on Caelan. Tiny bright red dots cover his body—his head, his chest, his heart—each mark horrific promise of death.

So many dots. So many guns.

He’s going to die. He’s going to die because of me.