Page 25

Chapter 25

L ila

The night air slices into my lungs. Sharp, clean, painful. It’s been years since I’ve breathed anything but the recycled sterility of my prison. The shock of it makes me dizzy.

“Move!” Talon’s voice cuts through the ringing in my ears. His hand clamps around my upper arm, half-dragging me over ground that refuses to stay level beneath my feet.

Behind us, sirens wail. Shouts echo through the darkness. The Syndicate’s cage gapes open, and they want their bird back.

“I’m trying,” I gasp, stumbling over roots and rocks, my prison-soft feet already bleeding inside the boots someone thrust at me. Every muscle screams from exertion I haven’t known in decades.

Ahead, the extraction team moves quickly, Hargen’s unconscious form strapped to an emergency stretcher between two operatives. Blood drips steadily onto the forest floor, marking our path in crimson. His blood. So much of it.

My fault. My choice. My rescue that put the bullet in his belly.

“Stay with me,” Talon growls, his grip tightening as I falter. The moonlight catches the remnants of scales along his jaw—golden flecks that shimmer and fade as his dragon form recedes. “We’ve got two clicks to the transport. Can you make it?”

Two kilometers. It might as well be two hundred.

“Yes,” I lie, because what alternative do I have? Back means death—or worse, the chair again, the Shard used against me, against anyone with dragon blood. Forward means… I don’t know what forward means. Just not that .

We push through underbrush, the forest swallowing us into shadows. The red-haired woman—Zoe, I heard Talon call her—leads the way, her movements silent and efficient. Four other operatives surround us, weapons ready, faces grim in the darkness.

“They’ve deployed air support,” one operative mutters, pressing a finger to his earpiece. “Two minutes out.”

“Scatter pattern,” Zoe orders without breaking stride. “The ravine offers cover. Move.”

The team changes direction, angling downward toward a slash in the earth I can’t see but can feel in the sudden tilt of the ground. My legs give out as we navigate a steep embankment. I crash to my knees, rocks tearing through thin fabric into flesh.

Talon hauls me up without a word, his forearm sliding around my waist, taking my weight against him. His body radiates heat that cuts through the mountain chill, through the numbness spreading up my limbs.

“Nearly there,” he murmurs, though I know it’s another lie.

The ravine appears suddenly—a deep cut in the earth, dark water rushing far below. The operatives carrying Hargen hesitate at the edge.

“We can’t cross with him like this,” one says.

Zoe gestures impatiently. “The bridge is fifty meters north.”

We follow the edge, my feet dragging, Talon practically carrying me now. The Shard’s warmth intensifies, responding to my fading strength, to my fear.

A sound cuts through the night—thwump-thwump-thwump. Helicopter rotors.

“Down!” Zoe orders.

We drop, bodies pressed into cold earth as a spotlight sweeps the forest behind us. Too close.

The helicopter hovers, spotlight swinging in widening arcs, then moves away.

“Thank fuck.” Talon’s voice is in my ear a moment before he has me on my feet again. The effort leaves me shaking, black spots dancing at the edges of my vision.

“Get going!” says Zoe. “They’ll probably be back.”

We reach a narrow footbridge spanning the ravine, barely more than rope and wooden slats. The team carries Hargen across first, his blood leaving smears on the weathered wood. I stare at the swaying structure, vertigo hammering behind my eyes.

“I can’t,” I whisper.

Talon’s hand finds my shoulder, steady and warm. “You can. One step at a time. I’m right behind you.”

I force myself forward, knees liquid, hands clenched on the rope sides. Each step sends the bridge swaying. Far below, water crashes over rocks, the sound rising like the roar of my blood in my ears.

Halfway across, a plank cracks beneath my foot. I lurch sideways, a scream tearing from my throat as I dangle over the abyss, rope burning into my palms.

Talon’s arms lock around me instantly, hauling me against him. “I’ve got you,” he growls, the dragon resonating in his voice again. “Keep moving.”

We make it across, my legs collapsing as soon as we reach solid ground. Behind us, one of the operatives slashes the ropes. The bridge falls, disappearing into darkness.

No going back now.

“Transport’s just beyond the ridge,” Zoe says, checking something on a wrist device. “Three minutes. We need to keep moving.”

Talon hauls me up once more. I lean into him, into his impossible strength and heat, hating my weakness but too exhausted to do anything but accept it.

“Hargen?” I ask, my voice cracking.

“Hanging on,” Talon answers, but the grim set of his jaw tells me more than his words. “You did well with the Shard. Buying us time.”

I say nothing. What would I say? That the power felt good? That for the first time, I was the one controlling it, not the other way around? That deep in my bones, I know the crystal wasn’t meant for their hands but for mine?

We crest the ridge, and below, in a small clearing, a sleek helicopter waits, rotors still, lights dark.

“There’s our ride,” Talon says.

“More Syndicate patrols converging,” an operative calls, checking a tablet. “ETA four minutes.”

“Run!” Zoe orders. “Get him loaded first.”

We half-run, half-slide down the ridge toward the waiting aircraft. My heart thunders, each breath scraping in my throat. The team loads Hargen’s stretcher, his face ghost-white in the dim interior lights.

Talon lifts me bodily into the helicopter, my legs finally giving out completely. I collapse onto a bench seat, the metal cold against my overheated skin. He slides in beside me as the rotors whir to life, drowning all other sounds.

Through the open door, I see muzzle flashes in the trees—the Syndicate closing in. Zoe fires back, covering the last operative as he sprints for the aircraft. Then she’s in, slamming the door shut as bullets ping against the helicopter’s skin.

“Go, go, go!” Talon shouts, and the helicopter lurches upward, the sudden motion sending my stomach into my throat.

We bank sharply, the night forest tilting crazily outside the windows. I squeeze my eyes shut, focusing on breathing, on not vomiting, on the feel of Talon’s solid presence beside me. On Hargen’s fading life force pulsing weakly against my consciousness.

“How bad?” I ask when I can speak again, forcing my eyes open to look at Hargen strapped to the stretcher. The medic—a young woman with dark, close-cropped hair—works over him, cutting away his blood-soaked shirt.

“Bad,” she answers without looking up. “Bullet tore through his liver. He needs blood.”

“Transfusion?” Talon asks.

The medic shakes her head. “Can’t type him in the field. It’s too risky.”

“I know his type.” My voice sounds distant to my own ears. “O negative.”

The medic glances up, skepticism etched on her face. “You sure?”

“Positive,” I say firmly, too tired to explain what even I don’t fully understand.

She hesitates, then nods. “We have limited O negative on board. It might buy him time, but—”

“He needs more than time,” I say, reaching for the Shard in my pocket. “He needs—”

Talon’s hand closes over mine, preventing me from drawing the crystal out. “You’re too weak,” he murmurs. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’ll kill you.”

“Let go.” I meet his gaze, unflinching despite the tremors wracking my body. “Please.”

Something shifts in his eyes—recognition, perhaps. Respect. His hand falls away.

I pull out the Shard, its crimson light bathing the helicopter’s interior. Several operatives tense, hands moving toward weapons.

“Stand down,” Zoe orders, her eyes narrow as she watches me.

The crystal burns against my palm, hungry, eager. Power stirs beneath my skin, answering its call. With my free hand, I reach for Hargen, fingers finding the pulse point at his throat. So weak. Barely there.

“I need a knife,” I say, instinct telling me what I need to do.

No one moves.

“Now,” I snap, strength returning to my voice.

The medic reluctantly hands me a small scalpel from her kit. My fingers close around it, familiar memories surfacing—my mother’s hands guiding mine, her voice murmuring ancient words. A ritual passed down through Rossewyn blood, meant to heal, to bind, to save.

“Only in the gravest need,” she’d warned. “It takes as much as it gives.”

Except, I don’t even know if this is going to work. Blood to blood , she’d said. Hargen isn’t my blood. But with the bond we’ve shared, maybe it’ll be a strong enough connection.

All you can do is try…

I draw the blade across my palm, blood welling crimson in the hollow of my hand. I press the Shard into the wound, hissing as power surges through the connection, exponentially stronger than before. My blood activates something in the crystal. Something ancient. Something hungry.

“What are you doing?” Zoe demands, half-rising from her seat.

“Saving him.” At least I hope I am. I reach for Hargen, my bloodied palm finding the exposed skin of his abdomen, fingers spreading wide over the bullet wound.

The connection forms instantly. Hargen’s life force, the Shard’s power, my blood. A circuit of energy, raw and dangerous. I close my eyes, focusing on the thread that has connected us for years, that tether of magic the Syndicate forced between us to make him my handler, my buffer, my prison guard.

But it was never just that. Not to him. Not to me, if I’m honest.

Please let it be enough…

I push the Shard’s power through that connection, directing it to knit damaged tissue, to halt bleeding, to restore what bullets have torn through. Pain lashes through me as the crystal draws from my own life force to fuel the healing. My breath stutters, vision going dark at the edges.

Voices blur around me, urgent but meaningless. I feel Hargen’s body jolt beneath my hand, his mouth opening in a silent scream as the Shard’s energy courses through him. The bond between us flares, stronger than it’s ever been, opening channels I didn’t know existed.

Images flood my consciousness—Hargen’s memories, not mine. A younger man, seeing me in that chair for the first time, horror dawning as he realizes what they expect him to do. Syndicate scientists watching coldly. His silent rage when Creed pushed visions too far, when my blood painted steel tables. His quiet vigil beside my bed after sessions that nearly killed me.

Years of small kindnesses hidden from surveillance. Moments of connection disguised as medical necessity. The gentle brush of his fingers against mine when passing food or medication. His fear each time they threatened to replace him.

And beneath it all, a current of emotion so strong it steals what little breath I have left. Not duty. Not obligation.

Love.

My eyes snap open as the realization hits. Hargen’s gaze meets mine, his consciousness returning as the healing takes hold. He knows what I’ve seen. What I’ve felt.

“Lila,” he whispers, his voice rough with blood and pain. “Don’t.”

But it’s too late. The ritual is in motion, power flowing between us, the Shard feeding on our connection to work its magic. Hargen’s wound closes beneath my palm, flesh knitting, blood flow slowing, then stopping. His color improves with each beat of his heart, strength returning to his limbs even as mine fails.

The price of such healing is always high, my mother had said. And she was right.

My vision tunnels to a pinpoint of light. The last thing I see is Talon lunging toward me as I pitch forward, darkness swallowing the world whole.