Page 85 of Taken

My pulse stutters. Phoenix? Impossible. They’re extinct. Hunted to oblivion centuries ago.

“But that’s not possible,” someone echoes my thoughts. “Phoenixes are a myth. Legend.”

“Tell that to the eight men we lost out there today,” Creed snaps. “Good Syndicate fighters gone. Just like that.” He snaps his fingers. “A complete waste. We’ve come back empty-handed. After everything we’ve invested. The witch isn’t supposed to have found her power yet. And now this, on top of it all.”

“Sir, we couldn’t have anticipated—” begins one of the soot-coated operatives.

Creed’s hand closes around the man’s throat. “You think that matters? We had Dorian Craven. We fuckinghadhim.”

I keep my face impassive as my mind races. Dorian Craven was captured? And now he’s not. Because of a phoenix.

Good.

“Show them,” Creed snarls, dropping the choking man.

The wall screen flickers to life with surveillance footage. A shadowed room. Elena Ross—unmistakable with her dark hair and fierce eyes—wielding magic that makes my skin prickle even through the video. Then a change of scene. They’re outside now, in front of a towering building. Syndicate operatives drag a figure between them. Dorian Craven, bloodied but defiant, in restraints.

Then—fire. Not dragon fire. Something purer, brighter.

A woman walks through flames, untouched. Her skin shimmers gold, her eyes burn like twin suns. The footage distorts as she transforms, wings of living flame erupting from her back.

“Holy shit,” someone whispers.

The phoenix—because that’s what she is—unleashes hell. Syndicate operatives scatter, some burning where they stand. She reaches Dorian, touches his restraints, and they disintegrate.

Then static.

“I want that creature found,” Creed hisses. “I want the other Rossewyn witch. And I want the fucking Heartstone.”

His gaze sweeps the room, landing on me. “Reeve. My office. Now.”

As I follow him out, one thought burns in my mind: I need to get Lila out. Tonight. Sooner if possible. With Creed in a mood like this, there’s no telling what he’s capable of.

Creed slams his office door, every muscle in his body coiled. His eyes glint with barely contained dragon fire.

“We’re taking them on,” he growls, scales flickering across his cheeks.

“Taking them on?” I repeat. “Who, sir?”

“Who?” he barks. “Allof them, you fucking idiot!”

I nod my head, knowing better than to question him further. “Of course, sir.”

“I want everyone in the main hall. Every operative we’ve got.” He yanks open a drawer, pulling out a red phone. “While they assemble, I’m contacting Syndicate leadership. This changes everything.”

I keep my expression neutral despite my racing pulse. “All personnel, sir? That leaves security dangerously thin.”

“You think I give a damn about staffing levels right now?” Creed’s nostrils flare, smoke curling from them. “We have automated systems, lockdown protocols. Our assets will stay put.”

“And Lila?” The question is out before I can stop it.

Creed’s eyes narrow slightly. His expression darkens further. “Emerson believes the witch actively sabotaged our operation. She manipulated the Shard, interfered with our control over Serena Maze.” He slams his fist down. “Even with every precaution, every restraint, she’s working against us. She’s more liability than asset now.”

My blood runs cold. “Sir?”

“We’re cutting our losses. Permanently. I’ll make the necessary arrangements.”

The implication hangs between us like a blade. They’re going to kill her.

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