Chapter 20

T alon

The world should be burning. But it isn’t.

I scroll through reaction reports, squinting at my tablet in the darkened monitoring room. Three days since dragons tore through Seattle’s skyline, and humanity’s response is… underwhelming.

“‘ Viral marketing stunt shocks Seattle ,’” I read aloud from the Washington Post headline. “Are they serious?”

The analyst beside me nods, dark circles under his eyes betraying his exhaustion despite his smirk.

“Craven Industries’ PR team is claiming it was all an elaborate promotion for some dragon fantasy film one of their subsidiaries supposedly producing. People are actually buying it.” He shakes his head.

“Fucking unbelievable,” I mutter. I scan further down the article. Special effects experts weighing in on the “impressive but obviously digital creatures.” Film industry insiders praising the “innovative guerrilla marketing approach.” Social media debates about ethics versus advertising genius.

“This makes no sense.” I open another report. “Hundreds of witnesses. Dozens of videos. Physical damage to buildings.”

“Movie magic,” the analyst says with a shrug. “CGI. Practical effects. People will believe anything to avoid confronting the impossible.”

I flip to CNN’s coverage: “Seattle Dragon Hoax: How Craven Industries Fooled The Internet.” Then to Fox News: “Liberal Elite’s Latest Distraction: Fake Dragons.”

There’s dissent, of course. Those who are adamant that it all really happened. People who were there. Those who are certain the footage is accurate. But most are being written off as kooks and psychos.

Because dragons aren’t real. They can’t be.

The denial is astounding, almost impressive. Humans desperately clinging to a reality that makes sense, even when confronted with scales and fire and impossible wings.

“Mass delusion,” I murmur. “They’re collectively gaslighting themselves.”

“Works for us.” The analyst taps the screen. “Syndicate leadership’s scrambling to capitalize on it. Pushing ‘expert debunkers’ onto news programs, amplifying skepticism.”

I swipe to footage of cleanup crews at Craven Tower, repairing shattered windows and scorched concrete. The official story: controlled explosions for the “promotional event” that “regrettably exceeded safety parameters.”

“What about verified casualties?”

“Movie stunt gone wrong.” He grimaces. “Tragic accident during filming. Families quietly compensated.”

Convenient. Clean. Almost unbelievable how easily humans rationalize away the extraordinary.

“Sir?” The analyst shifts. “The Director wants these summarized for the 0900 briefing.”

“They’ll be ready.” I nod.

He hesitates. “There’s also… this.”

A video appears on the main screen. Aerial footage of Craven Tower, but from an angle I hadn’t seen before. Elena Ross stands on a balcony beside Caleb Craven, pressed against him. She looks composed, confident. Nothing like a traumatized captive.

Beside her, Caleb slides his arm around her waist with easy familiarity. The gesture isn’t scripted. It’s protective, instinctive. A dragon with his mate.

Something twists in my chest watching them—not just professional interest, but a resonance I can’t deny. The way Caleb leans into Elena, the unconscious tilt of her body toward his. I recognize that gravitational pull. I’ve felt it myself, growing stronger each time I’m near Lila.

“When was this?” I ask, unable to tear my eyes away.

“Soon after the incident,” he says.

I study Elena’s face, searching for signs of her mother in her features. The same determined set to her jaw. The same intelligence in her eyes. But where Lila’s power burns like banked coals, Elena’s blazes openly, confidence radiating from her posture.

“She’s not under duress,” I observe. “That’s genuine.”

The analyst nods. “Intelligence confirms she and Craven have formed some kind of… connection. Romantic involvement, at minimum.”

“Mate bond,” I correct without thinking.

He raises an eyebrow. “Sir?”

“Theory,” I recover smoothly. “Based on observed dragon behavioral patterns.”

“Between a dragon and a witch?” He sounds skeptical. “That’s unexpected.”

“So is everything else about this situation.” I turn away from the screen, uncomfortable with the intimacy of watching them. And with the unwelcome thought that follows: if Elena and Caleb could form such a bond, what am I feeling for Lila? Maintaining a distance has been killing me. “Log it with the others.”

When the analyst leaves, I lock the door and pull the encrypted comm unit from my boot. The quantum frequency clicks twice before connecting.

“Aurora actual. Status report.” My voice is lower than the hum of equipment around me.

“Talon.” Zoe is back, not Viktor, this time. Clearly, things have changed. “Situation update?”

“Unexpectedly contained. Craven PR machine in overdrive—movie promotion narrative gaining traction. Public mostly buying it, against all logic.”

“We know. We’re helping push it.”

That stops me short. “You’re what?”

“Amplifying the skepticism. Our digital teams are flooding platforms with ‘evidence’ of CGI manipulation. Film industry contacts providing ‘insider confirmation’ of the marketing campaign.”

“Why?”

“Viktor’s orders. We need time. Time to prepare, to position our people before actual revelation occurs. This… collective delusion buys us that time.”

I absorb this, calculating implications. “And the Cravens are cooperating with this approach?”

“We’ve had no contact with them, but they’re actively leading it. Caleb Craven and Elena Ross have formed a rather powerful alliance—”

“A mate bond,” I repeat the thought I’d voiced to the analyst.

“Yes,” Zoe agrees. “It’s undeniable. Unexpected, though. We haven’t seen anything like this since… Hell, I’ve never personally encountered a witch-dragon mate bond. I know there’ve been dalliances, but nothing like this.”

“You mean aside from Kael and Lyria?” I say. Most of us know the legend of the Craven king who fell in love with a Rossewyn witch four hundred years ago.

“Yeah, apart from that,” she acknowledges. “Anyhow, it looks like it’s happened again. A Rossewyn and a Craven. History repeating itself, I guess.”

Relief washes through me. “She’s safe, then. The daughter.”

“For now.” Zoe’s voice turns cautious. “We both know how things turned out for Lyria.”

I bite down a surge of anxiety. “There’s no reason Elena would die like her ancestor,” I say, knowing full well that there are dozens of reasons why she might.

“Guess not,” Zoe concedes. “Not if the Cravens can help it, at any rate. They’ve closed ranks. Increased security, limited access, maintained public presence while fortifying their position.”

“Smart.”

“Yes. But it complicates matters regarding the mother.”

My pulse quickens. “How so?”

“Viktor wants to postpone extraction. With the situation temporarily contained, immediate action presents unnecessary risk. Better to wait until surveillance relaxes, security protocols normalize.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Anger flashes hot in my veins. “She can’t stay here. You didn’t see what they did to her with the Shard.”

“I understand your concern,” Zoe’s voice softens slightly, unusual for her. “But Viktor’s orders are clear. Stand down. Maintain cover. Continue intelligence gathering until instructed otherwise.”

“And Lila?” I can’t keep the edge from my voice. “What happens when they use her again? When they realize they can leverage her against her daughter?”

“We’re working on contingencies. For now, your priority remains intelligence collection. Especially regarding Syndicate response to the Craven-Rossewyn alliance.”

The callous pragmatism ignites something primitive in my chest. Lila deserves better than being expended for strategic patience.

“Understood,” I lie.

“Viktor says to remind you that emotion clouds judgment,” Zoe adds, too perceptive for comfort. “The larger mission remains paramount.”

“I’m aware.”

“Good. Aurora actual out.”

The connection drops, leaving me alone with the conflict raging inside me. Logic agrees with Viktor; waiting makes tactical sense. Emotion demands immediate action: get Lila out, consequences be damned.

I replace the comms unit, unlock the door, and resume my role. Syndicate security chief. Loyal operative. Conflicted spy.

Things still haven’t settled since the shitstorm at Craven Towers. As I make my way through the corridors of the stronghold, tension written on the faces around me. The Syndicate’s leadership remains in crisis mode, and when Creed’s in crisis, it’s best to stay out of his way.

I navigate through the corridors with purposeful strides, nodding to those who acknowledge me, playing my part while evaluating my options. The security checkpoint to Lila’s section has tripled in personnel since her display of power. Creed taking no chances since she turned her magic on him.

Why the hell did you do it, Lila?

Though I can’t say I blame her.

“Sir.” The guard nods, scanning my credentials carefully. “Purpose of visit?”

“Security assessment. Standard protocol following Level 5 containment implementation.” I keep my voice flat, uninterested.

He checks his tablet, then nods. “Yes, sir. Full surveillance active.”

The warning is clear: They’re watching. Closely.

I pass through three more checkpoints, each more heavily guarded than the last. Lila’s attempted attack on Creed has triggered every security protocol in the facility handbook. The closer I get to her, the more my dragon stirs, sensing danger and opportunity in equal measure.

Her door is reinforced steel, monitored by both human guards and magical sensors attuned to detect power fluctuations. I approach with professional detachment, though I’m finding it hard to keep my breathing steady.

“Ten minutes,” the final guard says. “Observation protocols in effect.”

I nod once, then step inside as the door slides open.

The room is different from her previous quarters. Smaller. More sterile. No windows, no personal items, not even the little paper dragons she used to fold. Just a narrow bed, a steel toilet, and unforgiving white light from recessed fixtures. A cage stripped of even the pretense of comfort.

Lila sits on the bed, back straight, hands folded in her lap. The elegant poise of a queen, not a prisoner. Her hair falls in a dark curtain over one shoulder, highlighting how fragile her bone structure seems. New bruises blossom along her jaw, her wrists, telling stories of resistance and punishment.

Beautiful, even in confinement.

No, not confinement. Temporary setback.

I’m getting her out, goddammit!

My chest tightens at the sight of her bruises. The urge to touch them, to heal them with gentle fingertips, is almost overwhelming. Instead, I clench my fists at my sides, scales prickling beneath my knuckles in response to my rage at what they’ve done to her.

Her eyes lift to mine as the door closes behind me. Sharp with intelligence and something darker. A hunger I recognize because it mirrors my own.

“Security Chief.” Her voice reveals nothing to any listening ears. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

I move toward her, maintaining professional distance though everything in me wants to gather her close, to taste her mouth again, to feel her skin beneath my hands. To take her away from this sterile hell.

“Just a security assessment.” I keep my voice level, eyes darting to the camera in the corner, then back to her face. “Standard procedure after a containment upgrade.”

Understanding flickers across her features. She plays along seamlessly.

“Of course.” She gestures to the room. “As you can see, I’m quite secure.”

I pretend to inspect the space, moving deliberately to create blind spots in the camera’s coverage. When I’m directly beneath it, my back to the lens, I mouth two words to her.

Your daughter.

Her eyes widen slightly, pulse jumping visibly at the base of her throat. That pulse point—I remember pressing my lips against it during our stolen moment. How her heartbeat had raced beneath my touch, a rhythm I wanted to memorize.

“I think you’ll find that your new circumstances will discourage any further thought of rebellion,” I say aloud for any listening ears. But I hope she’ll read between the lines; the increased security is going to hinder our plans of escape.

“Does it?” Her tone is perfectly balanced between disinterest and resignation.

“The current situation requires…” I pause, selecting my words carefully, “recalibration of priorities.” In other words, the Collective thinks it’s more important to keep an eye on the shitshow with Craven. It burns to think about it,

“The Syndicate scrambling to maintain control,” she translates, voice dry. “How unusual.”

Dangerous words with surveillance active, but I admire her spirit. Always defiant, even when it costs her. The same fire that drew me to her that first day, that’s had her etched into my brain since those first moments.

“The world is… adjusting,” I say, moving to inspect the opposite wall, creating another moment of privacy. “Your daughter is safe,” I whisper when the camera can’t see my lips. “With Craven.”

Something flashes across her face—hope, relief, fierce pride—before she masks it. She dips her chin, the tiniest of nods. I’m not sure if she’s acknowledging my words or letting me know that she already knew. It wouldn’t surprise me if she did. Something has changed since I saw her last.

“Adjusting,” she repeats, loud enough for the microphones. “Quite the understatement.”

“Circumstances necessitate careful management,” I continue the official conversation. “All assets secured until further notice.”

“Translation: I’m not going anywhere.” Her mouth curves in bitter amusement. “Shocking.”

I turn, catching her gaze, trying to convey what I can’t say aloud. That I haven’t abandoned her. That plans have changed, not ended. That I’m still working to free her. That the taste of her still lingers on my lips, that her scent haunts my dreams, that the thought of her in pain makes my dragon rage against its chains.

Something strange happens as our eyes lock. A pressure builds inside my skull, not painful but insistent. Like standing too close to a subwoofer, feeling sound as physical force rather than noise.

It’s me…

I freeze, barely breathing. The voice isn’t audible—it resonates directly in my mind, unmistakably Lila’s. She’s… speaking to me.

Impossible!

The dampening fields should prevent any magic, especially telepathic intrusion.

Her expression doesn’t change, but her eyes intensify, boring into mine.

Can you hear me?

I give the smallest nod, imperceptible to anyone watching but clear to her. My dragon stirs beneath my skin, responding to magic that shouldn’t exist in this heavily warded room. Responding to her in a way I’ve never experienced—like she’s calling to something primal in me, something that recognizes her as more than just an asset to protect.

The Shard did something to me. Changed me. I’m stronger now.

Her words are so clear, it’s like she’s speaking into my ear. I pretend to check my tablet, mind racing. The extraction damaged her neural pathways, Hargen said. Reconfigured them. Created new connections where none existed before. Did it do this? Did Creed’s inhuman treatment actually increase her power? The irony isn’t lost on me.

“Security protocols appear functional,” I say aloud, still maintaining the charade. “No anomalies detected.”

They’re planning something, she says to me silently. Creed came yesterday. They’re going to use the Shard again. Soon.

I force my expression to remain unmoved despite the alarm bells her message triggers.

“Maintenance schedule shows standard inspection due next week,” I continue professionally. “I’ll need access to your full containment specifications.”

They want to control a dragon. One inside the Craven clan. I don’t know if I can stop it.

I feel myself go cold. This is worse than I thought. If they succeed in controlling a Craven dragon through Lila and the Shard…

“I’ll coordinate with Dr. Emerson regarding your medical evaluations,” I say, moving toward the door as my allotted time expires. “Standard procedure.”

Don’t leave me here. Please.

The plea sucks the air from my lungs, though her face remains composed, the perfect prisoner showing nothing to watching eyes. My chest tightens with the need to promise her freedom, to swear I’ll burn this place to the ground before letting them hurt her again. To tell her that something in me has shifted irrevocably since I first saw her—that I don’t just want to save her for the mission anymore, but for reasons I’m afraid to name.

Instead, I tap something into my tablet. “Noted. Security Chief Reeve, inspection complete.”

I turn to leave, every step away from her a battle against instinct.

I trust you.

Three words that pierce me more deeply than any knife. Trust. After being used and violated and abandoned, she offers trust to a man she barely knows. To me. Something in my chest responds to that trust—an ancient dragon impulse to protect, to claim, to cherish.

I pause at the threshold, looking back one last time. Our eyes meet across the sterile room, camera watching, guards listening, yet in that moment we’re alone together in the space between heartbeats. I try to pour everything I can’t say into my gaze—that I’ll come back for her, that whatever this connection is between us, it’s becoming impossible to deny.

“Procedure dictates we maintain optimal security for high-value assets,” I say, words for the record but eyes speaking differently. “I’ll return for further assessment.”

A promise. A vow.

Her chin lifts slightly. Message received.

The door slides closed between us, severing our connection. The guard nods as I pass.

“All in order, sir?”

“Routine.” I shrug, the picture of bored professionalism. “Asset secure.”

I stride through corridors that feel like tunnels now, narrowing toward an uncertain future. My orders are clear: stand down, gather intelligence, wait for the right moment. Strategic patience.

But patience won’t save Lila from what Creed plans next. Won’t stop them from using her and the Shard to control a Craven dragon. Won’t prevent them from leveraging her against her newly powerful daughter.

In my quarters, I sit heavily on the edge of my bunk, head in my hands. Her voice still echoes in my mind, impossible yet undeniable.

Don’t leave me here. Please.

Viktor would call me compromised. Emotionally entangled. Putting personal connection above mission parameters.

He wouldn’t be wrong.

What I feel for Lila defies the careful control I’ve maintained. Burns hotter than anything I felt even for Becca, my mate lost to London’s flames. More dangerous, more volatile, more consuming.

And yet… more right, somehow. As if the universe itself recognizes what I’m only beginning to understand.

She’s meant to be free. Meant to stand beneath open sky, power unbound, spirit unchained. And I’m meant to help her find that freedom, whatever it costs me.

I take in a breath, reminding myself of what I’m here for. Allard Reeve, Syndicate security chief, gathering intel. But beneath that mask, Talon waits. Patient. Determined. Loyal not to organizations or causes, but to what matters.

To her.

Orders or no orders, I will get her out. Not today, perhaps. Not tomorrow.

But soon. Before they break what can never be replaced.

I will free Lila Ross.

Or die trying.