Page 79 of Bitten, Marked, Obsessed

CALLUM

They hit just before noon—when the streets are most crowded, when people feel safest.

Gideon’s Torch doesn’t care about strategy. They care aboutstatement.

The blast rocks the West Market like a goddamn meteor strike. One second I’m walking down the block near the Hollow’s southern edge, trying to ignore a text from Elias about another backroom council brawl, and the next—boom.

The air ignites.

Screaming. Shattered glass. The stench of burning hair and hot blood.

I shift before I realize I’m doing it—my body snapping into combat form, ears ringing, eyes burning with the metallic tang of death. Smoke curls into the sky like some sick victory banner.

Gideon’s Torch doesn’t discriminate. Humans who support supernaturals? Fair game. Supes trying to pass for normal? Targets. Bolvi, witches, vamps—they want usallwiped off the map.

They don’t even care about PEACE anymore. They want a full-blooded fuckingpurge.

“Callum!” a voice barks behind me. Devon, eyes wide, blood on his temple. “South line’s collapsing—we need you!”

I nod once, already running, already shifting back just enough to shout orders. “Get civilians to the church ruins! Use the sewer tunnel—block three!”

I’m about to follow when I feel her.

That unmistakable crackle. Like flint sparking across skin.

I turn and there she is.

Adora.

She walks straight through the carnage like she belongs in it. Like the chaos bends around her because it doesn’t dare touch her.

I can see it now—see him in her.

She’s taller than Kendall, built lean and dangerous like a blade that never got dulled down by fear. Her blonde hair is darker than her sister’s—cooler, almost ashy under the haze of smoke, streaked with soot and sweat. Her face is sharper, too—cheekbones high, jaw tight, her mouth a hard line. And her hazel eyes—they’re his. Mathis’s. But where his are guarded, hers are wild. Fractured. Lit with something I’m not sure is entirely her.

She looks like a girl who just realized she’s been handed someone else’s life.

“What the fuck,” she says, fire crackling in her voice, “did you know?”

She’s already on me before I can brace, fists clenched, shoulders squared. And even in the midst of chaos, her scent cuts through the blood and smoke—storm-heavy, metallic and sweet, like power just waking up.

“Now’s really not the time—” I start, but she doesn’t care.

“I don’t care if the city’s burning,” she spits. “You knew. Didn’t you?”

I hold her gaze, feeling my pulse throb behind my ribs. “Yeah,” I say. “I did.”

It hits her like a punch, and she stumbles, just a breath, just long enough for me to see what’s breaking inside her. It’s not rage first. It’s pain. It’s grief.

“I heard her,” she says. “My mom. She said your name. She saidhisname. Mathis Wulfson. She said... he was my father.”

I nod again. Once. Solid.

And something in hersnaps.

Her breath shudders in and out. “How long?”

“I didn’t know until I saw you, after your shift. Until I felt it. Saw the way you moved, the way your instincts turned sharp like blades. That’s Wulfson blood, Adora. That’s legacy.”

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