Soryn Kaelreth

I don’t touch her at first.

That’s the rule I’ve set for myself, even as her blood is still under my claws and the air tastes like iron and burnt rubber and fear. Even as she’s right there—wrapped in Vaelor’s coat, breathing shallow but steady, eyes half-lidded and glassy with shock and pain.

I stay crouched a few feet away, panther instincts coiled tight under my skin, every part of me screaming to pull her close, to check every inch, to mark her as alive.

Instead, I watch.

I catalog.

Because that’s what I’ve always done when it comes to Seralyth Ashcroft. When it comes to wanting something I’m not allowed to take.

Her pupils are uneven. One dilates slower than the other. Concussion. Her hands tremble—not from fear, not anymore, but from the brinks residue still leeching out of her system. There’s a shallow cut at her hairline, clotted badly, and bruising blooming already along her ribs where someone handled her like an object instead of a living thing.

My jaw locks.

Vaelor says her name—low, controlled—but I hear the fracture under it. Bramrik is already moving, massive hands absurdly gentle as he checks her pulse, her breathing. Elowen stands a few steps back, eyes hard and calculating, already building legal war in his head.

And me?

I’m still not touching her.

Because if I do, I won’t stop.

She looks at me then. Really looks. Focus finds me through the haze, silver eyes catching on my shape like they always have.

“Soryn,” she says. Rough. Quiet.

It hits harder than any blade.

I cross the distance in two steps and kneel in front of her, close enough now that her knees brush my thighs, close enough to feel the tremor in her body. I don’t touch. I hover. Let her feel me there without overwhelming her.

“You did well,” I say, because she needs to hear it. “You stayed alive.”

Her mouth twitches. “That wasn’t… luck.”

“No,” I agree softly. “It wasn’t.”

Because she fought. Because she listened. Because she remembered everything we drilled into her long before she was old enough to understand why.

The van lies on its side behind us, twisted metal and shattered glass still settling. Bodies are everywhere—some unconscious, some very much not breathing. The scent of blood is thick enough to choke on.

None of it matters.

Only her.

Bramrik clears his throat. “She needs a real bed. Quiet. No movement.”

“Ashcroft Mansion,” Vaelor says immediately.

There’s no argument. There never is when it comes to that place.

The Ashcroft estate isn’t just walls and land—it’s history. It’s where her father taught us what loyalty actually meant. It’s where the world still feels like it makes sense.

I rise as Vaelor lifts her carefully, her weight barely a burden to him but the responsibility of it pressing down on all of us. She curls instinctively into his chest, breath hitching when pain spikes.

I step closer then. This time, I let my fingers brush her wrist. Just once. A grounding touch. She exhales like she’s been holding her breath for hours.

That nearly breaks me.

* * *

The drive is silent.

Vaelor takes the front seat, white-knuckled and immovable. Elowen rides shotgun, already on the phone, voice clipped and precise as he pulls favours that will leave scars across the Regent network. Bramrik sits across from her in the back, taking up too much space and somehow still not enough.

I sit beside her.

She’s half-reclined across the seat, head cushioned against my thigh because it was the only way to keep her still without hurting her. I keep one hand braced near her shoulder—not touching unless the road jolts—ready to steady her.

Her breathing evens out eventually, exhaustion pulling her under. Not unconscious. Just… gone somewhere quieter.

That’s when the memories hit.

Her father’s voice, low and amused. You don’t guard what you fear losing, Theron Ashcroft had said, years ago, pacing the training ring with his hands behind his back. You guard what you choose to keep alive.

She’d been small then. All knees and sharp eyes and stubborn silence. Watching us from the steps like she was memorizing every movement, every mistake.

“She’s too young,” I’d said.

Theron had smiled at me. “She’s Ashcroft.”

And gods help me, he’d been right.

I look down at her now—grown, bruised, still fighting even when her body begs for rest—and my chest tightens with something dangerously close to grief.

We failed him.

We hid her. We protected her. We did everything right.

And still, they took her.

My hand curls slowly into the fabric of the seat.

Never again.

She shifts, murmuring something under her breath. My name, maybe. Or Vaelor’s. Or nothing at all.

I don’t correct it.

* * *

Ashcroft Mansion rises out of the dark like a promise kept.

Lights blaze on before the vehicles even stop—Rhevan already waiting, Tavian pacing the front steps like a caged wolf, Caelric standing unnervingly still near the door, eyes sharp and calculating even now.

They see her and the world narrows.

Tavian is at her side in a second, hands hovering uselessly as Vaelor carries her inside. Rhevan’s face goes carefully blank, the way it always does when he’s deciding how much blood he’s willing to spill.

Caelric looks at me.

“What injuries?”

“Concussion,” I say. “Brinks exposure. Bruised ribs. No internal bleeding we can tell.”

His jaw tightens. “Yet.”

They move fast after that. Ashcroft efficiency. Rooms prepared. Healers called. Protocols enacted without a word spoken.

She’s laid gently on the bed in the east wing—the one she always liked because the windows face the forest.

I stand back this time. Force myself to.

The healer works, murmuring reassurances, checking reflexes, eyes, balance. Seralyth winces when light hits her pupils too fast, teeth gritting as pain pulses behind her eyes.

That’s when the anger hits me.

Hot. Clean. Lethal.

I turn away before she can see it, before I do something I won’t regret but will definitely have to explain.

Bramrik places a hand on my shoulder. Heavy. Grounding.

“She’s alive,” he rumbles.

“I know,” I say tightly. “I also need to know who put her in this bed.”

And I will find him.

* * *

Night settles deep by the time the mansion finally quiets.

She sleeps. Real sleep this time, sedated and safe and wrapped in layers of protection she shouldn’t need but has anyway.

I stand in the doorway, watching her chest rise and fall.

Wanting is a dangerous thing.

I’ve wanted her for years. Since the moment I realized the careful distance wasn’t protecting her—it was protecting me. Since the first time she looked at me like she knew exactly what she was asking for and refused to apologize for it.

And still, I step back.

Because wanting her doesn’t mean I get to take.

Because loving her means keeping my hands off until she chooses to reach for me again.

When I finally turn away, it’s with a promise etched deep into bone and shadow.

Whoever touched her.

Whoever ordered it.

Whoever thought silence would keep her contained—

They will learn what happens when the panther stops watching and starts hunting.