Page 3

He freezes mid-syllable, the unfinished word hanging in the air between us like something solid and alive. Slowly, he raises his hands.

“You interrupt sacred work, mortal. “His voice resonates at a frequency that makes my teeth ache and my vision blur.

Mortal?

I’ve met guys with god complexes before, but this is next level delusional. Still, the way he says it doesn’t just send ice water trickling down my spine—it freezes the marrow in my bones.

“I’m interrupting theft of government property,” I say. Voice steady despite the tremor that starts in my hands and radiates through my chest. I mask unease with detachment, keeping my tone flat while my pulse kicks against my throat. “On your feet. Slowly.”

As Litvak rises, something on the altar catches my eye—a small stone covered in swirling symbols that seem to shift and dance in the moonlight. For a heartbeat, I swear they rearrange themselves into words my eyes shouldn’t be able to read.

Stone of power. Stone of old. Stone to test the bearer’s worth.

My vision narrows to a pinpoint, the world shrinking to just me and those dancing symbols that write themselves into my consciousness. The meaning bypasses thought, landing directly in bone and blood and the spaces between heartbeats.

That split-second distraction costs me.

Litvak spins with impossible speed, slashing at me with something that flashes silver in the moonlight. I jerk backward. Not quickly enough.

The blade slices through my gear into my forearm.

What hits me isn’t pain—it’s awakening. Fire and ice simultaneously, something ancient spiraling through my bloodstream.

Every heartbeat pushes it further.

My body becomes a battleground between what I’ve always been told I am and what I’ve always been.

I don’t cry out. Training takes over and I move to pin Litvak. My body flows wrong. Too fast. Too fluid. Like a predator, not a soldier.

I drive my knee into his solar plexus, executing a perfect takedown. Pinning him face-first to the forest floor. Dirt and pine needles embed in his sweat-slick face.

“Target secured,” I say into my comms. Voice steady despite the burning spreading from the cut. “Package recovered.”

Litvak twists his head. Eyes suddenly wide with fascination rather than pain or anger. He stares at my arm where the blade cut me. Then his gaze flicks to my neck, just behind my ear where the birthmark pulses hot against my cold skin. It throbs in time with my heartbeat, each pulse sending waves of heat across my scalp.

How can he even see it?

Then he speaks—not in English. Not in any language I’ve ever studied. Words that should be meaningless gibberish.

“Féachann an fhuil ríoga go hálainn faoi sholas na gealaí.”

The royal blood looks beautiful in the moonlight.

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

The words slam into my brain like a download. No translation needed. My mouth opens to respond in the same language. I bite my tongue hard enough to draw blood.

My throat burns with the effort of containment, muscles spasming around sounds desperate to escape.

“What did he say?” Davis asks, jogging into the clearing with the backup team. “What language was that?”

I examine my weapon, checking the safety. “He complimented my appearance.” The words come out flat, emotionless. “Said I look beautiful in the moonlight.”

Davis’s eyes narrow. “That’s not what it sounded like.”

“You asked what he said. That’s what he said.” I meet his stare without blinking. “Whether it sounded like poetry to you is your interpretation.”

“Ash—”