Page 23

P eyton’s scream is a trigger.

A gunshot inside my mind.

My beast ignites within my body, but I’m already surging forward, leaping toward Jonah with the full force of my hellhound’s fury.

I can barely see Peyton’s form because of the flames engulfing her, catching only a terrifying glimpse of the side of her silhouette, her clothing burning to ash, her arm and leg on that side glowing bright amber, her beautiful face filled with fiery cracks, her gorgeous hair casting embers around her while her snakes shriek and writhe?—

Jonah lifts her off her feet, and Peyton’s eyes are wild with pain and fear, but somehow, impossibly, she sees me coming.

“No, Striker!” she screams. “You won’t survive!”

I can’t heed her warning. Can’t hear much of anything over the blood pounding in my ears, the pure rage beating through my veins.

Kill him , my beast roars. Tear him apart!

“Striker!” Peyton’s desperate wail sounds right before I collide with Jonah.

My left hand is outstretched, my claws extended but only partially, allowing me to take a full grip of Jonah’s arm where it presses against Peyton’s stomach and keeps her constrained.

My momentum allows me to hit his left side while my hand pulls his arm wide.

His flames engulf my hand and leap up my arm, but my own fire has burst out from within me, my muscles pumping, my chest expanding, lines of lava rippling across my skin as my hellish beast emerges.

With a roar and a single shove, I rip Jonah away from Peyton, the strength of my momentum lifting both him and me from the ground, making us airborne.

His icy eyes widen, a shock that’s impossible to misinterpret—he doesn’t understand why his fire hasn’t burned me. Hell, I don’t know either, but right now, I don’t give a fuck.

With all the force of my strength, I ram him down onto the ground.

Peyton has dropped to the grass on our left.

She’s rolling…

She’s fucking rolling to beat the flames out of her hair and clothing, and she’s whimpering and crying and sobbing, and I can’t…

I can’t fucking stand it.

Every part of me wants to pulverize Jonah. I want to smash my fist into his face and split his cheek apart. I want to crack his ribs and crush his throat and rip his heart out of his chest. I don’t fucking care about the flames bursting up around his body or the scorching heat that comes with them.

My own flames are more terrible.

In my mind, I’m punching him over and over again, and I’m shouting at him that I’ll fucking kill him because I can’t see anything past the red haze that’s fallen over my vision, and I can’t hear anything above the sound of Peyton’s sobs.

And yet… Even as my mind rages and the horrors of my past make it nearly impossible to stay in control…

I’m aware that I’m not punching him. I’m holding Jonah down, a knee to his chest, a hand around his throat while my body is covered in flames, both his and mine.

But I’m not hitting him.

My other fist is raised, ready.

My arm is shaking. My chest is heaving. My growls are ripping from my throat.

I want to make him hurt. I want to tear him apart.

But I’m not doing it.

And it’s taking… fucking everything … not to give in to the rage. All the rage from all the times someone hurt Peyton, and I couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

All that rage clouding my mind and pushing, pushing at me.

It’s all I can do to hold it back.

Somewhere in my mind, I’m aware that Slade is fighting Vanguard, trying to get past him—he should be able to get past him, but somehow, he hasn’t been able to yet, and I can’t fathom why.

At the edge of my vision, I’m conscious of a swarm of flying creatures screaming toward us. They’re female figures that I know for certain aren’t Peyton’s sisters because I’ve seen this kind of creature before. It was in the pit at the Academy.

Fucking harpies.

On her first day at the Academy, Peyton fought and killed one of them. An impossible feat. So unlikely that I didn’t believe at first that she’d done it.

Ten harpies soar toward us, and it’s clear they’re aiming directly for Peyton. Why her, specifically, I don’t have time to wonder.

Their bodies are covered in feathers, from their ankles to their stomachs and across their breasts, while their faces are weirdly doll-like. Their feathers can cut through flesh, and so can their talons.

Behind them, three more women fly, streaking after the harpies, and these women, they’re clearly angry as fuck, their brows drawn down, their teeth visibly gritted even from the distance still between us.

They’re dressed in assassin suits like Peyton’s, their appearance so similar to each other’s that they could be identical triplets except for the color of their hair: black, gold, and crimson.

The whips at their hips and the snakes visible in their hair tell me that they must be Peyton’s Fury sisters.

“ Striker! ”

From within the haze of my rage, I register Peyton’s voice calling my name.

“Striker?” Peyton’s quiet voice shatters my mind. “Let him go.”

My breaths seethe from my body, and my upraised hand shakes as I force myself to look at her.

She’s collapsed on the grass, her clothing burned off parts of her body, the material barely covering her breasts and pelvis. Her brown eyes are enormous, her face is streaked with tears, and she sounds…

She sounds like Peyton.

Not like a Fury.

I’m frozen. Stricken still. Even more unable to move than I was moments ago.

The air around me is screaming with noise, the harpies are only seconds away from reaching us, the clash of steel sounds behind me, and Jonah lies unconscious on the ground.

I’m not sure when I knocked him out. Maybe when I rammed him against the ground.

Or maybe my hand around his throat has cut off his air.

I try to take a breath, try to inhale, but it’s impossible.

All I can see is Peyton huddled against the wall in her bedroom at the Academy, clinging to the blanket she stole from me and, when she let me pry it apart, the way her shirt had gaped open at the front, every button missing, and all the fucking knife cuts crisscrossing her chest, each one bleeding.

I couldn’t protect her.

I couldn’t stop any of it.

“Striker,” Peyton whispers, her voice cutting me to pieces. “We aren’t there anymore.”

A second later, the environment changes around me.

I recognize Slade’s power as it closes around us, a realm forming before my eyes.

He has honed his ability to the point where he doesn’t have to be in physical contact with those he wants to include in the realm. He can pick and choose.

Now, the realm closes down around Peyton, Jonah, and me, and all the way back to Slade and Vanguard, abruptly cutting off the oncoming harpies.

The ground beneath my feet changes to snow, the air chilling, while an icy, barren field forms all around us. The air is a soothing cold, but the snow quickly melts around Jonah and me.

A glance at Slade tells me that he has Vanguard in a chokehold while Vanguard’s sword lies on the ice a few feet away.

“Striker,” Peyton whispers again. “You don’t have to be there anymore.”

I close my eyes. She’s reading my thoughts and emotions, but it’s impossible to close myself off.

All I can do is open my fist and release Jonah’s throat.

Stumbling to my feet, I manage three steps toward Peyton before I drop to the snow, my head bowed. I don’t want to crowd her. I just need to be closer to her, just close enough for the memories to stop.

I’m aware of a soft scraping as she pulls herself toward me, and then?—

Her hand closes over my arm, her fingers barely making it across the width of my muscled forearm.

She presses herself to my side, her hair brushing my neck, her shoulder to my chest.

“We aren’t there anymore,” she whispers, over and over. “We aren’t there, Striker.”

Hot, angry lava burns around my eyes. Not tears. In this form, it seems lava is all I’ve got.

I don’t want to burn her, so I turn my face away, but she takes hold of me, both hands pressed to my cheeks.

“Look at me,” she commands, a hint of Fury in her voice that compels me to obey.

My beast responds to her touch and her command with a terrible relish. Look at her. Look at how fucking beautiful she is. How strong she has become.

She was always my match. Always fighting me. Always challenging me.

“What do you see?” she asks, refusing to let me go.

I see her healing body, skin reforming, scorched wounds sealing over, new hair flowing down her sides, and a flush rising to her cheeks.

Peyton is gone again.

I think.

Maybe in the shadows of her crimson eyes, there’s a hint of the woman I knew, but I can’t deny her true nature.

“I see you, Fury,” I say.

Her lips curve as if I’ve pleased her. “It is good to be seen.”

She turns with a growing snarl toward Vanguard, where Slade has driven him to his knees on the ground.

Slade’s wings are extended, and the burning scent of his killing power fills the air, but I’m certain he won’t use it to its full effect.

Peyton rises and paces across the snow toward Vanguard, her burned suit slapping the backs of her legs in the thickening silence.

Even Slade seems wary of her while Vanguard watches her approach with a clenched jaw and tight lips.

She bends to him and takes his chin in her hand. “James Vanguard,” she says, “I sense your lies. What game are you playing?”