Page 47

"Vex?" My voice comes out smaller than intended.

He doesn’t turn. Every line of his body speaks of a predator preparing for battle—scales gleaming with that purple-black iridescence that appears when he’s agitated, muscles coiled with tension that makes my omega instincts scream warnings.

I move beside him, following his gaze to the eastern ridge.

My blood turns to ice.

Movement. Dark shapes stark against the sunrise, too large and too purposeful to be anything but Council forces. Even at this distance, I can distinguish the specialists—Gargoyle forms with their distinctive stone-heavy builds and massive wings, accompanied by sleeker Feline enforcers whose graceful movement speaks of deadly efficiency.

"How many?" The question scrapes from my throat.

"Fifteen. Possibly more." His voice carries no emotion, but his tail lashes once behind him—the only sign of the fury I know burns beneath his controlled exterior. "They've brought a full extraction team."

My hand moves instinctively to my belly. The slight swell barely shows beneath my tunic, but the life growing inside has become more real with each passing day. They weren't just coming for a claimed omega. They were coming for a breeding success.

"Their formations suggest a coordinated assault," Vex continues, his tactical analysis precise despite the death warrant approaching across the peaks. "Gargoyles will maintain aerial superiority while Felines execute a ground approach. They'll funnel through the ravine." He paused, a flicker of grim satisfaction in his eyes. "Where our traps are waiting."

But as we watched, the ground forces split. A third of the operatives veered north, another third broke south, while the main group held its position. The aerial units adjusted their flight paths to provide cover for all three contingents.

"They're not using the ravine," Vex growls, the sound a low vibration in the stone beneath my feet. His wings twitch with frustration. "They're flanking it. Systematically."

The military precision of the maneuver sends a chill down my spine. This wasn't a simple enforcement squad; this was a planned invasion.

"How?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper. "They can't know about the traps. The ravine is the only logical approach."

"They don't need to know." Vex turns to me, and the look in his yellow eyes is something I've never seen before—not just fury, but the grudging respect of one predator for another. "This isn't a standard patrol. This is a specialist unit. They have technology we can't counter—long-range thermal scanners, geological mapping... They didn't need to find our traps. They identified the ravine as the obvious chokepoint and simply chose not to enter it."

The realization hits me with the force of a physical blow. We hadn't been betrayed. We had been outmaneuvered. All our careful preparation, all of Vex's intimate knowledge of this territory, rendered useless by superior technology and cold, professional strategy.

"Kain," Vex says, the name a curse. "He's not just an enforcer. He's a hunter. And he's playing a different game."

I sink onto a stone bench, my legs suddenly unreliable. The weight of the baby—still so small but already changing everything—feels heavier than it should. We are facing a foe who is simply better prepared and better equipped than we imagined.

"We need to leave," I say, panic rising in my throat. "Now, before they reach effective range."

"No." The finality in his voice stops my building hysteria. "Running identifies you as a target. They'll pursue indefinitely once confirmation of pregnancy spreads through Council networks."

His logic makes tactical sense even as it terrifies me. A pregnant omega with specialized skills represents the ultimate prize—proof that human-Prime breeding can produce viable offspring while maintaining valuable capabilities. The Council would mobilize entire armies to reclaim such an asset.

"Then what do we do?" I ask, though I dread his answer.

He turns to face me fully, yellow eyes holding mine with an intensity that makes my chest tighten. In his gaze I see acceptance—not defeat, but acknowledgment of odds that would break lesser alphas.

"You survive," he says simply. "Whatever the cost."

The words hit like physical blows. He's not planning victory. He's planning sacrifice.

"Don't you dare." The words emerge fierce, protective instincts I never knew I possessed rising to meet his resignation. "Don't you dare give up before the fight even starts."

Something flickers in his expression—surprise, perhaps, or approval. He steps back, wings spreading as he prepares for departure.

"Inner chamber. Emergency supplies. Northern exit if you hear the stone signal." His instructions are crisp, professional. "Don't wait for confirmation. Don't hesitate. Don't try to help."

Each directive feels like a small death.

I want to argue, to insist we face this together. But the practical nurse in me recognizes the truth—I would be a liability rather than an asset in aerial combat against specialized binding teams. My survival depends on following the protocols we established for exactly this scenario.

When he embraces me, his wings enfold us both in what feels too much like a farewell. I cling to him with desperate strength, memorizing the feel of scales beneath my palms, the rhythm of his heartbeat against my cheek, the scent that has become safety and home despite everything that should make such association impossible.