Page 31 of Where Lightning Strikes Twice (Fated Mates, Stubborn Hearts #2)

I meet them head-on, storm magic surging through my body. Lightning arcs from my wings, striking one directly in the chest. He falls instantly, feathers smoking. The remaining two circle warily, looking for an opening.

Below, ground combat has erupted. Sable’s wolves clash with Dire Wolf patrols in vicious close-quarters fighting while Haven’s Heart soldiers advance methodically under covering fire. Bran’s bears tear through barricades with raw strength, their roars echoing across the battlefield.

The battle plan is working. Viktor’s forces are divided, confused by the multi-pronged attack. But I don’t see Viktor himself, which means he’s likely in the temple with Elena, continuing ritual preparations despite the chaos.

I dispatch the remaining guards with a powerful surge of lightning, then dive toward the temple. Through our bond, I can feel Elena more strongly now—her determination mixed with fear, not for herself but for the prisoners Viktor plans to sacrifice.

Storm magic crackles around me as I approach the temple. The ancient stone structure sits atop a natural rise, its entrance guarded by Viktor’s most loyal followers. I shift into human form as I land on the temple roof, the transformation allowing me to drop through an opening in the stone ceiling.

Inside, the temple air hangs heavy with dark magic—a cloying, oppressive atmosphere that makes my skin crawl.

I move silently through shadows, following the pull of the mate bond like a compass pointing true north.

Voices echo from the central chamber ahead—Viktor’s cold commands and responses from his followers.

“The battle outside is irrelevant,” Viktor’s voice carries clearly. “Let them exhaust themselves. Once the ritual is complete, none will stand against us.”

“And the prisoners?” asks another voice.

“Bring them now.” A pause. “And fetch Dr.Ashford. It’s time she witnessed what true power looks like before she contributes her own.”

My hands clench, lightning dancing between my fingers. The casual way he speaks of Elena’s death sends rage flooding through me. I force myself to remain hidden, to wait for the right moment.

I slip along the shadowed colonnade, counting guards, counting breaths.

The side chamber smells of fear and damp stone.

Through the grate, I find her—Elena—kneeling beside a cluster of prisoners with their hands bound to an iron rail.

Lyra works a hidden pick at the locks, her movements so economical they barely disturb the torchlight.

A low current rides my skin. We are both too late and just in time.

“Elena,” I whisper, a breath of sound. Her head lifts; for a heartbeat, our eyes lock, and the static between us flares.

A slow clap breaks the quiet.

Viktor steps from a rib of shadow, silver-gray eyes amused, stormlight coiling lazy and lethal around his fingers. “Stormwright,” he says to the dark where I hide, “you fly well. You skulk poorly.”

He doesn’t look at Elena when he speaks; he looks straight at me.

Lyra’s pick snicks. The first shackle falls. “On my mark,” she breathes.

I shift weight, ready to cut the lantern and take the room in darkness—when Viktor lifts the ritual blade and touches its point to the threshold sigil. The symbol flares a sickly green. Wards shudder awake.

Stone booms. The floor between us splits like a closing jaw.

But Lyra is already moving, picking locks as the wards start to activate.

“Run!” she shouts to the two prisoners she’s managed to free, shoving them toward a narrow waste chute.

They scramble through just as a lattice of lightning cages the chamber, yanking Elena backward on hidden chains.

“Dawn is for sacrifices,” Viktor says pleasantly. “Midnight is for rats.”

I hurl a braided bolt at the sigil; he meets it with a turning wrist and redirects the charge into the wards.

The chamber doors slam. Lyra gets another shackle free and shoves the freed prisoner toward the waste chute.

She gives the rest of the chained people a desperate look.

“We’ll come back for you,” she tells them, then palms a flat token into Elena’s hand. “Keep this. It’s keyed to the chains.”

Guards flood the corridor. I take two down, three, but the lattice is already carrying Elena away through the inner conveyance toward the main ritual chamber. She keeps her eyes on mine until the bars slide across her face and the wall eats her.

Viktor smiles without heat. “Bring him,” he says. The guards surge; I blow the torches and turn the hall into thunder. The roof trembles. When the smoke clears, I am gone—driven back, not broken.

We will not get another clean approach before dawn.

Outside, a storm builds over Black Ridge. On the far ridgelines, coalition beacons answer one another, a chain of Sable-bright signals that march toward us. They will be here at first light.

I take the wind, fury coiled tight. “Hold,” I send to Zara. “They have Elena. Ritual at dawn.”

And the storm answers me back.