Page 33

PROTECTIVE RAGE

Vex's POV

The binding chain whistles past my left wing, close enough to singe scales.

Paralytic energy crackles along the metal links—one touch and I'll never fly again.

I twist midair, using momentum to drive my tail into the Feline enforcer below me.

The impact sends him tumbling into the ravine, his scream swallowed by mountain mist.

Blood streams down my side from three wounds. A binding dart that grazed my shoulder. Claw marks across my ribs where one particularly fast Feline got close. A deep gash along my thigh from shrapnel when they triggered my own rock traps against me.

None fatal. But together, they slow me.

Four hours of this. The Council forces press forward with mechanical determination, their numbers barely diminished despite my territorial advantages. These aren't normal enforcers. They're specialists. Every weapon, every tactic designed specifically to ground a Chimeric alpha.

I bank upward, catching a thermal that lifts me above their effective range. Fifteen operatives started this assault. Nine remain combat-effective, including one Gargoyle binder whose stone wings beat with patient rhythm as he waits for the perfect shot.

My territory. My rules.

But something shifts in my awareness—a subtle change in air pressure that speaks of movement in distant passages. My enhanced senses detect the vibration of footsteps where none should be. The rhythm is wrong, too light and too coordinated for the mountain's natural inhabitants.

Intruders. In my den.

The realization hits with devastating clarity. Kain has divided his forces—the eastern assault merely distraction while specialized extraction team targets Amelia directly. A classic Council tactic I should have anticipated.

Kain. The cunning bastard divided his forces while I was focused on the obvious threat. The eastern assault was distraction. A feint to draw me away while extraction specialists targeted Amelia directly.

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, scent molecules 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 specifically for 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.

Amelia clings to the cliff face fifty meters below my position, moving with careful precision along the treacherous path.

Her emergency pack weighs her down. Her pregnant body struggles with the physical demands.

But she moves forward with the same stubborn determination that's defined every moment since I first claimed her.

Pride and terror war in my chest. Pride at her courage, her resourcefulness, her refusal to surrender despite impossible odds. Terror at how vulnerable she looks against the vast mountain face, one wrong step from death.

Above her, a Gargoyle circles with patient menace. Stone wings beat steadily as he positions for the perfect angle to drop and claim his prize. From his vantage point, he can see everything—her location, her slow progress, the limited options available to someone trapped on a cliff face.

Below, Kain's scent grows stronger as he realizes his mistake and backtracks to find her true path. She's caught between aerial threat and ground pursuit, with nowhere to go but forward along an increasingly treacherous route.

Unless I intervene.

The decision requires no thought. I fold my wings and dive, ignoring the protests from my injured appendage as I build speed toward the Gargoyle. He sees me coming—stone head turning with geological slowness as I close the distance between us.

But Gargoyles aren't built for aerial combat. They're siege weapons. Endurance fliers. Their strength lies in patience and overwhelming force, not the split-second maneuvering that aerial fighting demands.

I strike him from above and behind, claws extended to full length as I rake across his wing joints. Stone chips fly like sparks as my attack finds the vulnerable junctions where even Gargoyle flesh yields to sufficient force.

His roar shakes the mountainside. We tumble together, locked in combat as we fall toward the valley floor far below. Stone fists pound against my ribs. My claws seek the soft spots between his armor plates. Neither of us can gain decisive advantage while falling.

At the last possible moment, I break away. My wings snap open, catching air just enough to turn fatal fall into bone-jarring impact against the lower slopes. The Gargoyle has no such option—his damaged wings can't support controlled descent.

He strikes the valley floor with enough force to crack stone.

I don't wait to confirm the kill. Already I'm climbing back toward where Amelia continues her desperate traverse. But movement below catches my attention—more Council forces emerging from concealed positions.

They're everywhere. The entire valley floor crawls with enforcement teams. Feline trackers. Canine scouts. Additional Gargoyle support positioned at every possible escape route.

This was never a simple extraction. This is a full military operation.

And Amelia is caught in the center of it.

I roar my challenge across the peaks—the sound echoing from stone face to stone face until the entire mountain range rings with Chimeric fury. Let them all hear. Let them understand what they face when they threaten what is mine.

My territory. My mate. My child.

They want a war? They'll have one.

But first, I have to reach her. The path she's following leads toward a bottleneck—a narrow passage between two cliff faces that offers the only route toward the valley floor. If Council forces reach that chokepoint first, she'll be trapped with no escape.

I push my damaged wing beyond its limits, climbing toward her position with single-minded determination. Blood loss makes me dizzy. Pain clouds my vision. But none of it matters compared to the sight of my pregnant mate clinging to a mountainside while enemies close in from every direction.

She chose to fight. Chose to run rather than surrender. Chose to trust the escape route I prepared despite every reason to believe herself abandoned.

Now it's my turn to choose.

I can't fight them all. Can't protect her from every threat. But I can give her what she needs most—time and distraction while she reaches safety.

Even if it costs me everything.

The thought should terrify me. Instead, it brings strange peace. This is what true claiming means. Not possession, but protection. Not ownership, but responsibility.

She is mine to defend. Whatever the price.

I bank toward the Council forces below, wings spread to their full intimidating span as I prepare to meet overwhelming odds. If this is my last flight, I'll make it count.

For her. For our child. For the future they represent.

Run, Amelia. Run and don't look back.

The mountain will remember this day. The day a Chimeric alpha chose love over survival, protection over preservation.

The day the Convergence Peaks witnessed what happens when Council forces threaten what belongs to the storm itself.