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Rage floods my system—not mindless fury but cold, calculating wrath that sharpens every sense. Pain recedes beneath crystal purpose. Nothing matters except reaching her before they complete their mission.

I fold my wings and dive through the center of the remaining Council forces. The maneuver sacrifices safety for speed, exposing vulnerable joints to binding weapons. But hesitation now means certain failure.

My claws find the Gargoyle binder before he can discharge his weapon. Flesh tears. Stone cracks. His shriek follows me as I power westward, every wingbeat driven by desperate need.

Hold on, Amelia. I'm coming.

The flight becomes a race against time itself. I push beyond normal limits, muscles burning as wings drive me through air currents with brutal efficiency. My enhanced senses detect the signature of my violated territory—thermal disruptions, scentmolecules displaced by intruders, the metallic tang of binding technology contaminating my den.

The western approach confirms my worst fears. The concealed entrance hangs open, stone displaced from its careful camouflage. Multiple scent trails lead inside—Council operatives, binding equipment, and underneath it all, Amelia's fear-spiked adrenaline.

I squeeze through the entrance, wings folded tight against my body. The tunnel reeks of pursuit. Feline musk. Gargoyle stone-dust. Electrical discharge from specialized weapons.

And blood. Feline blood.

Pride cuts through rage. She fought back. My fierce omega didn't surrender without resistance.

I follow her scent deeper into the tunnel system. The trail tells its story with perfect clarity—her initial hiding spot, the moment she broke and ran, the path she chose toward the northern exit. Smart. Strategic. Using terrain I taught her to navigate.

But the pursuit scents grow stronger. They're close behind her. Too close.

The tunnel opens into the main junction chamber where three passages converge. Empty now, but the scent signatures paint a clear picture. This is where they cornered her. Where Kain attempted to secure her with restraint technology.

And where she fought back hard enough to destroy half my supply cache.

Stone debris litters the floor. Shattered jars. Scattered medical supplies. She triggered the shelf collapse—used my own storage system as a weapon to create the chaos she needed for escape.

Brilliant. Practical. Exactly what I would have done.

Fresh anger rises as I examine the specialized equipment they brought. A neural restraint collar designed specificallyfor claimed omegas. A transportation cage meant to suppress mating-bond communication during transport. Chemical suppressants that would have made her compliant regardless of her natural resistance.

They came prepared to steal her. To reduce my fierce mate to breeding stock for Council experimentation.

The scent trail leads to the concealed wall panel—now standing open after her escape. I follow it into the narrow passage, my bulk barely fitting through the emergency route I designed for her smaller frame.

Evidence of pursuit everywhere. Kain's scent strongest, pushing hard behind her fleeing form. At least one Gargoyle, struggling through passages too small for his stone body. They're tracking her by scent alone—an advantage she can't overcome no matter how cleverly she runs.

The passage climbs toward the surface. Toward the ledge where I placed the first marker stone. If she reached it, if she followed the route I prepared...

Light ahead. The concealed exit.

I emerge onto the narrow ledge, mountain air sharp in my lungs after the stale tunnel atmosphere. The exit stone has been moved recently—multiple times, based on the displaced dust patterns. Amelia passed this way. So did her pursuers.

But which direction?

The ledge extends both ways—upward toward the ridge, downward toward the valley markers. I scan for signs, reading the mountainside like a map written in disturbed stone and scuffed earth.

There. Barely visible scuff marks leading down and around the rock outcropping. Following the path toward my first marker stone.

Good girl. Trust the route I prepared.

But fresh scent on the wind stops me cold. Kain's trail continues downward along the main ledge—he missed her path, took the obvious route instead. But there's another scent. Gargoyle. And it's moving upward, circling around to cut off her escape from above.

They're coordinating. Using aerial position to drive her back toward ground pursuit.

I launch from the ledge without hesitation. My wounded wing screams protest, but fury overrides pain. Below me, the narrow path Amelia took winds along the mountain face—barely wide enough for human feet, invisible unless you know exactly where to look.

And there, pressed against the stone like a tiny figure from a children's tale, is my mate.