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"You don't get to win," she growled, her voice barely recognizable, thick with power and fury. "Not today. Not ever."

Ezra staggered back as the blast hit him square in the chest, his carefully constructed wards cracking like glass under pressure, his smug smile faltering for the first time since this bloody confrontation began.

Jace didn't lunge toward Ezra as she expected. Helimpedtoward her instead, each step clearly agony, his golden eyes never leaving her face, filled with a devotion that made her heart stutter.

"Lyra…" he murmured in her head—just a whisper across the bond they'd formed without meaning to, fragile but unbreakable.

She turned, breath catching in her throat, hope blooming painfully in her chest.

He was barely holding his wolf form, muscles trembling with the effort, blood dripping steadily from his torn flank, pooling beneath his massive paws, but he wasalive. Against all odds, against Ezra's blade, against death itself—Jace had returned to her.

Then, before she could turn back around, before she could finish what she'd started, Ezra's rage had surged to monstrous heights. Lyra barely had time to react.

Ezra burst from the trees like a nightmare given flesh, his blade laced with blood magic and venom, glowing with sickly green light. His handsome face was twisted in triumph and hatred, no longer bothering with the mask of civility. His eyes were wrong—glassy, black-rimmed, like something hollow and ancient had taken root behind them. Magic cracked in the air like thunder as he charged, every step shattering the protective circle she'd painstakingly carved into the earth hours earlier.

Her voice faltered mid-chant, the spell dissolving on her tongue.

"Jace!" she screamed, but he was too far—too hurt to reach her in time.

Ezra was already on her, his breath hot against her face, smelling of decay and dark promises.

Her hands lifted desperately, power surging through her veins once more, but not fast enough to form a shield, not fast enough to counter his attack.

He grinned, raising the blade overhead, triumph gleaming in those empty eyes.

And then a shadow hit him from the side like a meteor, a blur of black fur and primal fury.

Jace.

39

JACE

Pain.

White-hot. Bone-deep. Unrelenting.

That’s what greeted Jace as he stumbled to his feet, blood dripping from his ribs, his breath ragged with each step.

But he moved anyway. Because she was still standing.

Because Lyra, his mate, his storm, his chaos—was in the center of that hellfire battlefield, surrounded by Ezra’s magic and the spirits she’d summoned with blood and will.

And no one was touching her without going through him first.

He shifted, the transformation slow, forced, every muscle screaming in protest. His wolf form gave him strength, but it was barely holding together. Blood seeped through fur. The air smelled like ash and death.

Yet all he could see washer.

Lyra stood in a ring of glowing roots and whispering wind, her eyes glowing with arcane light. Her voice lifted in chant, ancient syllables rolling off her tongue like thunder in slow motion. She was calling down the final binding—one meantto sever Ezra’s hold on his rogue wolves, on the land he’d corrupted, on the pack he’d tried to dismantle.

But Ezra wasn’t done.

He lunged from the shadows, magic flaring around his blade, his form still human—but warped, eyes wild, lips curled into something unhinged.

“No!” Jace snarled and charged, ignoring the searing pain that ripped down his spine.

Ezra turned too late.