Chapter 27 Heist
Eva
The metal was warm; too warm; like it had been waiting against someone else’s skin. The moment the open ends met at my nape, there was no click, no dramatic magic flash. I waited for pain, for lightning, for the sky to fall.
Nothing.
Except suddenly every hair on my body stood up, and my heartbeat wasn’t mine anymore. It thumped deep and possessive, a rhythm that echoed another one, Malach’s, miles away in that godforsaken mine. Hurry home, it said. You’re mine now.
“Fuck you,” I whispered to the empty room. To him. To the torc.
The birthmark behind my ear that had been throbbing like a second heartbeat since that first night in the Pit, went still. Like a door slamming shut on a room I didn’t know I’d been trapped in.
The world looked the same as I looked through the window, but it didn't feel the same. Every headlight seemed brighter, every shadow deeper. I could hear the bass from a passing car three blocks away. My senses were dialed up to eleven, and the control panel was in a language I didn't speak. I wanted to tear the damn thing off.
I picked up the Glock. It felt heavier than I remembered.
I grabbed my jacket, shoved the Glock into the waistband at the small of my back, and checked the time on my phone. 11:17 p.m. The address Fen gave me was forty minutes away if I pushed the Ducati hard. Plenty of time to plan.
This wasn’t a suicide run anymore. It was a heist. My heist.
Step one: Scout the warehouse from the shadows. Ronan’s wolves would smell me coming a mile away now—the torc was broadcasting Malach’s scent like a goddamn beacon. Good. Let them panic.
Step two: Create a distraction. The pepper spray would blind them; the piano wire would trip them. If things went south, the Glock had silver-tipped rounds I’d loaded back in the motel bathroom.
Step three: Get Lily out. The kid was the priority. Ronan could have the building burn for all I cared.
And if Malach showed up? If the bond pulled him here like a magnet?
I touched the torc again. It hummed under my fingers, warm and approving.
“Then he can watch me win without him,” I said to the mirror. My reflection smiled back, all teeth and fire. For the first time since that catwalk, I felt like myself again.
I shrugged into my jacket, grabbed the keys, and stepped out into the night. The Ducati waited like a loyal beast, engine growling to life under me. The wind tore at my braid as I pushed down the throttle, the city lights blurring into streaks. Every sense screamed: faster, closer, home.
I ignored it. I had wolves to hunt.