232

232
Dravina POV
"Push back with me, Blue," I whispered inwardly.
My wolf stirred, a faint purr in response, but it was weak tired, wounded, straining to hold on. We had never wielded compulsion by choice, never trained, never been taught. And because of that, even our shared will our fused strength wasn’t enough to shake it off. Not yet.
I turned on Marzena, my throat raw, my words cracked but sharp enough to cut.
“Don’t you even care about your daughter?” My eyes flicked to Zenovia, lying unconscious in the dirt, battered and broken.
Marzena glanced at her, no more than a heartbeat of acknowledgement, before her gaze returned to me. Expression blank. A shrug. That was all.
The chill of it sank into me. Zenovia wasn’t her child. She was a pawn. Another piece on Marzena’s board just as Rhydian had been, just as Drethos had been. And now, she wanted me as well. Because that’s what power-hungry cowards do. They seize what they can’t create, and they crush anything that dares remind them of the humanity they lost.
“Zenovia will be fine. What do you care anyway?” Marzena’s voice cracked like ice, cold and dismissive.
At her words, the pressure inside my skull spiked, molten and searing, as though iron had been driven through bone. My jaw locked, teeth grinding to keep from crying out.
“Collar her. Now.” Marzena’s tone sharpened as she glanced around, tension leaking through her calm. “We shouldn’t linger here.”
Roarke only chuckled, slow and maddening.
“Patience. The collar won’t hold until she’s completely broken.” His voice slithered, smooth and cruel.
Marzena snapped back, her composure fraying at the edges. “What about the regional alphas? They’ll be rushing back”
Her voice wavered. She was afraid.
Roarke laughed outright, arrogance rolling from him like smoke.
“They’re chasing shadows,” he said with smug certainty. “Malrik despises Zebulon too much to see clearly. And if they do catch on? I’ll put them down like the rest. Relax.”
He spoke as if he were untouchable. As if the war was already decided.
And maybe it was. For everyone else.
But not for me.
Not yet.
We need time, I told Blue. If they collar us, it’s over.
Her presence stirred again, faint but fierce. Too much has changed. Too much to lose. We can’t quit now.
“We only need to destabilize Roarke,” I muttered aloud, my fists clenching, planting myself against the invisible weight.
The instant I said it, Blue surged inside me painful, but with direction, purpose. My pulse quickened. My vision sharpened.
This wasn’t over. Not yet.
“There’s duskthorn in the woods,” Blue whispered, her voice eerily calm. Too calm. “Let me take control. Yes, it’ll drive us mad… but long enough to fight.”
My heart seized.
Duskthorn.
Madness wrapped in survival. A poison my mother had once turned to, and it had ended in blood, in ruin. What if I couldn’t tell enemy from ally? What if I struck down my own? What if Malrik came back and I turned on him?
But there was no time left. The collar was coming. Roarke’s grip was tightening.
“Now, Dravina.” Blue’s voice was no longer soft. It was a command.
I closed my eyes and surrendered.
The shift hit me like lightning, ripping through my skin. Bones snapped and reshaped with brutal speed, but this time, I didn’t fight it. I gave Blue everything.
Across the battlefield, Roarke’s laugh echoed.
“Much better,” he mocked. “A mindless beast is easier to chain.”
That broke her.
Blue snarled, deep and guttural, a sound pulled from the marrow of the earth. And then she bolted.
“AFTER HER!” Roarke roared, fury shattering his calm.
Footsteps scrambled behind us, but we weren’t running to escape.
We were running to strike back.
Branches whipped past as we tore through the forest, the battlefield dissolving into shadows behind us. And then there it was. A low bush pressed against a stone, its purple blossoms and clusters of black-and-red berries glowing like a warning.
Duskthorn.
Blue lunged without pause. She didn’t go for the leaves or the petals. She tore straight into the berries the deadliest part.
My heart pounded with terror. With grief. With a savage, desperate hope.
She knew exactly what she was doing.
We weren’t fleeing.
We were arming ourselves.
With madness.