Chapter 12: Niklas's Rage

The bond snapped into place like a wolf trap closing on bone.

One moment, Niklas was sitting at the German table, pushing food around his plate, pretending to listen to Dimitri's report about the second trial. The next moment, he was on his feet, his chair crashing to the floor behind him, his heart pounding so hard he couldn't breathe.

"Commander?" Dimitri stood up, alarmed. "What's wrong?"

Niklas didn't answer.

He couldn't.

Because he could feel her.

Not her presence. Not her thoughts. Her pain.

Sharp. Bright. Terrifying.

Elif.

"She's gone," he said. His voice didn't sound like his own. It was deeper. Rougher. More wolf than man.

"What do you mean, gone?"

"She went for a walk. Into the forest." Niklas was already moving, already walking toward the door, already shifting his hands into claws. "She didn't come back."

"Maybe she got lost—"

"She didn't get lost." He turned to look at Dimitri. His eyes were red. "She was taken."

The forest was dark.

But Niklas didn't need light. He had her scent. Faint, fading, but there. He followed it through the trees, past the training yard, past the edge of the Council's territory, into the wild woods that bordered the stronghold.

And then he found the blood.

Her blood.

On the ground. On the leaves. On the broken branch of a pine tree.

"Elif," he whispered.

The wolf inside him roared.

He dropped to all fours. His clothes tore. His bones cracked and reshaped themselves. His face elongated into a muzzle. His teeth grew sharp and long.

When he stood up again, he was no longer a man.

He was a wolf.

A monster.

Seven feet at the shoulder. Fur as black as the space between stars. Eyes that burned like embers in a fire.

He threw back his head and howled.

The sound echoed through the forest, through the stronghold, through the very earth beneath his feet.

I'm coming, he thought. Hold on. I'm coming.

Milos's lair was hidden in the cliffs overlooking the Black Sea.

Niklas had heard rumors about it—a network of caves and tunnels where the Balkan half-blood hunter kept his prisoners, his trophies, his secrets. But he had never been there.

Until now.

He found the entrance easily enough. The blood trail led him right to it. But the entrance was guarded.

Two men. Big. Armed with silver knives.

They didn't see him coming.

The first died with his throat torn out. The second died with his spine snapped. Niklas left their bodies at the entrance and walked inside.

The tunnels were dark. Narrow. The walls were damp and cold. He could hear water dripping somewhere ahead, and beneath it, something else.

Breathing.

Many breaths.

He followed the sound.

The main chamber was huge.

A natural cave, carved by water over thousands of years, with a ceiling so high Niklas couldn't see the top. Torches burned in iron brackets on the walls, casting dancing shadows across the stone floor.

And in the center of the chamber, chained to the wall, was Elif.

She was alive.

He could see her chest rising and falling. Her clothes were torn. Her face was bruised. Her wrists were bound in silver chains that had burned through her skin.

But she was alive.

"Elif," he growled.

Her head lifted. Her eyes—those beautiful dark eyes—found his. And for a moment, she didn't recognize him.

Then she did.

"Niklas?" Her voice was hoarse. Broken. "Niklas, run. It's a trap—"

"I know."

He turned.

Seven men stood between him and her. Seven of Milos's hunters, their eyes glowing, their claws extended, their teeth bared.

And behind them, Milos himself.

"The great Niklas Vollbrecht," Milos said, smiling. "I was wondering when you'd show up. I was starting to think you didn't care about your little half-blood after all."

"Let her go."

"No." Milos tilted his head. "She's worth more to me than you can imagine. The First Wolf's blood. Do you know what I could do with that?"

"I don't care."

"You should. It could save your life." Milos nodded to his men. "Kill him."

The first man lunged.

Niklas caught him by the throat and squeezed. Bone crunched. The man went limp. Niklas threw him aside and moved to the next.

The second man swung a silver blade. Niklas dodged. The blade cut his shoulder—deep, burning—but he didn't stop. He grabbed the man's arm and twisted until it broke. The man screamed. Niklas silenced him with a blow to the skull.

The third and fourth came together.

Niklas shifted fully—not just his hands, not just his eyes, but his whole body. His bones cracked and reformed. His skin split and grew fur. His teeth lengthened into fangs.

He met them as a wolf.

They died as men.

The fifth tried to run. Niklas caught him by the ankle and dragged him back. The sixth tried to beg. Niklas didn't let him finish. The seventh tried to fight. Niklas broke him like a twig.

And then there was only Milos.

"You think this changes anything?" Milos asked. His voice was calm. Too calm. "You think killing my men makes you safe?"

"It makes her safe."

"No." Milos stepped forward. "It makes her mine."

He lunged.

Niklas met him halfway.

They crashed together like two storms—teeth and claws and raw, animal fury. Milos was strong. Experienced. He had killed more shifters than Niklas had ever met.

But Niklas had something Milos didn't.

Rage.

Ten years of rage. Ten years of grief. Ten years of searching for a girl he thought he had lost forever.

He grabbed Milos by the throat and pushed.

Milos's back hit the wall. The stone cracked. Niklas's hand tightened.

"I should kill you," Niklas snarled. "I should tear your head off and feed it to the crows."

"Do it," Milos gasped. "But if you kill me, you'll never find the relic."

"I don't care about the relic."

"You should." Milos smiled—blood on his teeth, blood on his lips. "Because the relic is the only thing that can save her."

"What are you talking about?"

"The First Wolf's blood. It's killing her. Slowly. From the inside. The only cure is the relic." Milos's eyes glittered. "Kill me, and she dies. Let me live, and I'll tell you where it is."

Niklas stared at him.

And then he let go.

Milos collapsed to the ground, coughing, gasping. Niklas stood over him, his chest heaving, his hands still shaking with the urge to kill.

"Tell me," Niklas said.

"Not here. Not now." Milos climbed to his feet. "When the Competition is over. When the Council has made its choice. Then we'll talk."

"If you're lying—"

"I'm not." Milos wiped the blood from his mouth. "Your half-blood is safe. For now. But the clock is ticking, Vollbrecht. The First Wolf doesn't like to wait."

He disappeared into the shadows.

Niklas let him go.

Elif was still chained to the wall.

Her eyes were wide. Her body was trembling. She was looking at him like she had never seen him before.

"Niklas," she whispered. "Your eyes."

He blinked. The red faded. The wolf receded. His bones cracked and reshaped themselves, and suddenly he was human again.

And naked.

He looked down at himself. At the blood on his chest. At the scratches on his arms. At the silver burn on his shoulder.

"Don't look," he said, reaching for a torn piece of cloth to cover himself.

Elif laughed—a broken, hysterical sound. "You just killed seven men with your bare hands, and you're worried about modesty?"

"Old habits."

He knelt in front of her and examined the chains. Silver. Warded. But the wards were weak—Milos had been in a hurry.

"Hold still," he said.

He grabbed the chains and pulled.

Muscles strained. Veins bulged. The silver burned his palms, but he didn't let go. He pulled until the links groaned, until the stone cracked, until the chains snapped.

Elif fell forward.

He caught her.

She was shaking. Cold. Her wrists were raw and bleeding. Her face was pale.

"I've got you," he said. "I've got you."

"You came for me."

"Always."

He held her against his chest, her head tucked under his chin, her hands clutching his shoulders. She was so small. So fragile. So human.

And she was his.

"I was so scared," she whispered. "I thought I was going to die."

"You're not going to die. Not today. Not ever." He pulled back just enough to look at her face. "But I need you to tell me something."

"What?"

He cupped her face in his hands. His thumbs brushed the tears from her cheeks.

"Look at me," he said.

She looked.

"Beni seviyor musun?" he asked in Turkish. Do you love me?

Her eyes widened. "Where did you learn that?"

"From you. Ten years ago. You taught me words I've never forgotten." He leaned closer. "Now answer me."

Elif's lips parted. Her breath was warm on his face.

"Bilmiyorum," she whispered. I don't know.

Niklas smiled.

It wasn't a happy smile. It wasn't a sad smile. It was the smile of a man who had been waiting for ten years and was willing to wait ten more.

"O zaman öğreneceğiz," he said. Then we'll learn.

And he kissed her.

The kiss was different from the others.

It wasn't desperate or hungry or angry. It was soft. Gentle. A promise.

When he pulled back, Elif's eyes were closed. Her lips were parted. Her hands were still clutching his shoulders.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"For what?"

"For coming for me. For not giving up. For seeing me."

"I've always seen you." He pressed his forehead against hers. "Even when you couldn't see yourself."

She opened her eyes.

"I'm scared, Niklas."

"I know."

"Not of Milos. Not of the Council." She swallowed. "Of me. Of what I'm becoming."

"We'll face it together."

"And if I become a monster?"

"Then you'll be my monster." He kissed her forehead. "And I'll love you anyway."

She closed her eyes again.

And for the first time since she had woken up in chains, she let herself believe that everything might be okay.