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Now, I’m desperate.

As I fall into sleep, the warmth in my chest grows.

I heard once that desperate people do desperate things.

It’s possible that before my time is up, I might have to try something very, very desperate

Chapter 2

Daxen

Night settles over the compound. The buzz of monitors, flickering of fluorescent lights, and the hum of air conditioning act as a soundtrack to the War Room, where I’ve been posted up for hours, going over data.

I lean back in my chair to stretch out the kinks in my back. The movement causes the leather to creak loudly in the still room.

The air stinks of blood. Half-empty bags and vials are strewn haphazardly around the table—all that remains of my meals over the last few days.

Now that the sun has finally set, my brothers will start filtering in, joining me for our nightly meeting before Gav assigns patrols.

And I still don’t have any concrete explanations to provide them.

I’ve been watching the patterns shift for months, but every new idea leads me right back to the same dead end.

My eyes burn, but I stop myself from pressing my palms into my sockets for the twentieth time this hour. The muscles in my jaw throb from hours of grinding my teeth while I stare at screens, watching names and dates and numbers blur.

No matter how hard I try, I can’t rearrange the pieces into something that makes sense. Nothing irritates me more than unanswered questions, but especially when those questions pertain to the Severed.

Those twisted assholes have been running the same bullshit plays and routines for centuries. The fact that they’re shifting tactics now means something big is happening that I can’t see.

If I can’t see the big picture, then I’m working blind.

If I’m working blind, then not only my two packmates, but the dozens of other teams working with us are at risk.

And that’s unacceptable.

“Don’t think too hard,” a familiar voice drawls. “You might pop a blood vessel, and I’m not cleaning that shit up.”

I don’t bother looking up. I already know who it is by the snarky tone.

“You don’t even clean up your own messes, Vae. I spend half my time doing it for you.”

Vaelenor throws himself into the chair across from me and proceeds to spin in a lazy circle.

At first glance, you’d think a male who looks like Vae—all perfectly symmetrical features, mussed dark auburn hair, and piercing green eyes—spends hours on his appearance. You’d be wrong. The asshole wakes up looking like he belongs on a billboard.

“Yeah,” he flashes a dimpled smirk that I know better than to trust. “You do such a good job, though.”

I grunt. If the ability to irritate the shit out of me were a combat skill, Vae would be the most decorated warrior in the compound.

“Who kicked your puppy tonight, Dax?” He stills his chair, studying me across the table.

I scrape a frustrated hand across my jaw, the stubble rasping against my palm. “How long have we been fighting the Deadwalkers, Vae?”

His brow furrows, and he kicks his boots on top of the oak table.

“Hundreds of years. Why?”

“Just… thinking out loud,” I mutter.