Ryker signals acknowledgment, combat training replacing words. We separate, creating divided targets, moving in perfect sync. Though our styles differ, years together have made us a seamless team.

I catch a glimpse of our attacker—black tactical gear, professional stance, Sterling Industries insignia missing. Not regular security. Something else. Their scent lacks the Sterling-specific patterns I’ve learned to recognize—mercenaries, not company men.

“Sterling’s private team,” I say, catching their scent despite the neutralizer. Their movements have that distinctive pattern—rigid, over-trained, confident from lack of real challenge. Their movements lack the fluidity of true pack coordination, relying on programmed responses.

I remember Mona’s breakdown of Sterling’s elite forces. Seven-person units, extensive training, modified combat patterns.

And predictable.

“Remember what Mona said,” I call to Ryker. “They lead with right-dominant patterns. Seven-count rotations.”

He adjusts his position, exploiting the weakness Mona identified. My dangerous sister with her brilliant mind. So much like Emma would have been, if she’d had the chance. The same vicious intelligence beneath that fragile exterior.

I count silently—one, two, three movements, anticipating the fourth with perfect certainty. When it comes, I’m already countering, turning Sterling’s choreographed violence against itself. My fighting style is direct and claiming—taking space through physical dominance rather than the evasive techniques their beta-dominant squad uses.

The first attacker goes down silently, throat crushed beneath precise pressure. Not cruel, just efficient. My body moves with practiced grace, muscles responding to years of combat experience. Fear-scent rises around me—prey recognizing predator on a level deeper than thought.

The second and third fall to Ryker’s methodical approach—disarm, disable, secure. Together, we’ve cut their advantage nearly in half. With each one down, I feel my territory expand—alpha instinct claiming conquered ground.

Then the pattern breaks. Someone improvises.

The shot catches Ryker in the shoulder, spinning him partially around. Not fatal, but bad. Blood blooms across his tactical gear, bright against black. The scent hits me instantly—pack blood, alpha injured. His cedar and steel sharpened with pain and determination.

Something inside me shifts.

My body temperature spikes, heart racing, muscles flooding with strength. Copper floods my mouth, vision sharpening until I can count the sweat beads on my opponents’ faces. My cherry tobacco scent explodes through the neutralizer, making weaker men step back. A growl vibrates through my chest, deep enough to rattle bone.

I move.

The remaining attackers never stand a chance. I flow through their formation like water through cracks, exploiting every weakness Mona identified. They expect resistance. They receive annihilation.

My scent breaks through completely. Full predator. Their beta squad has tactics and numbers, but not the territorial drive of a pissed-off alpha. They defend. I take.

One tries to retreat, reaching for his comms. My knife finds his throat before the call connects. Blood sprays hot across my skin, triggering something deeper—not disgust but satisfaction. Threat eliminated, pack protected, territory secured.

The last stands his ground, weapon raised, eyes calculating odds. He’s good—military bearing, extensive training clear in every muscle. But he’s been taught to fight soldiers.

I am not a soldier.

I am chaos with purpose.

When it ends, I stand amid the aftermath, breathing steady, heart rate elevated but controlled. No blank stare, no lost time. Just satisfaction in threats eliminated. My scent fills the area, marking territory claimed through combat—an alpha response that pushes through any chemical mask.

Progress.

“Ryker.” I move to check his wound, assessing with clinical eyes. But beneath that, genuine concern pulses through our bond. His injury echoes in my own body—alpha recognizing alpha pain, my own shoulder tightening in sympathy. “Status?”

“Functional.” His grimace says otherwise, but it’s not life-threatening. Through our bond, I feel his pain like a distant echo, his cedar scent now laced with copper. His pupils stay steady despite the blood loss—alpha biology compensating.

“Can you move?”

“Yes.” He gets up, favoring his good side. His scent stabilizes quickly—cedar reasserting control despite the injury. “Mission status?”

“Completed.” I check the detonator, confirming the sequence. “Seven minutes until the charges start the chain reaction.”

He nods, already moving toward our exit. His stride deliberately normal despite the wound—alpha refusing to show weakness, even with pack. “Find Theo. Start evacuation.”

“Not without Cayenne and Finn.” It comes out as a growl. The bond with Cayenne pulses hard in my blood—her chaos like a beacon I can’t ignore. Necessary as breathing. My body turns toward her. My teeth ache again, needing to mark, to claim.