Vaelor Thryne

The call comes in on a burner that only rings for three reasons.

Death. Betrayal. Or her.

I’m in the middle of a meeting I don’t give a damn about—territory reports, supply routes, the usual post-war rot that keeps people fed and keeps leaders pretending they’re not one bad week away from collapse. Bramrik is across from me, massive even in human form, arms folded, eyes half-lidded like he’s bored.

Soryn stands by the window, watching the street below like he’s counting heartbeats.

Elowen is the only one actually listening—chin tipped down, that calm predator focus that makes everyone else in the room feel like prey even if they don’t understand why.

The phone buzzes once.

I’m already moving.

No explanation. No apology. I’m out of the room and into the hall before the second ring finishes, pulse spiking so hard it turns my hearing sharp.

I answer. “Speak.”

Static. Breath. Then a voice I recognize—one of ours, one of the quiet ones. Informant, paid and protected.

“She came out of the third-floor unit,” he says fast. “Stairwell. Two males behind her, one in front. Clean grab. No shouting beyond the first thirty seconds. She fought. Hard. They used cuffs.”

My grip tightens on the phone so hard the plastic creaks.

Brinks.

My vision tunnels.

“Vehicle?” I grind out.

“Unmarked van. No plates. Left through the service alley. I’m following at distance but—”

I don’t hear the rest because something inside me goes cold and quiet in a way I’ve only felt once.

In war, when you realize the battlefield has shifted and you’re already too late.

I hang up without a word and turn back toward the meeting room.

The door is still half open. I don’t slow. I slam it wider, stepping in like a storm with a face.

Bramrik’s head snaps up. Soryn’s gaze pins to mine instantly. Elowen’s posture changes—just a subtle shift of weight that means he’s ready to kill.

“She’s taken,” I say.

Silence, one brutal beat.

Then Bramrik stands so fast the chair skids back with a screech. His hands flex, knuckles popping.

Soryn doesn’t move at all. His eyes darken. That’s worse. “Where?”

“Her building. Third floor. Stairwell. Brinks used.” The words taste like metal and murder. “They moved her in a van.”

Elowen’s jaw tightens. “They knew what she is.”

“Or they knew what she’s worth,” Soryn says, voice flat as a blade.

Bramrik’s breathing changes—deeper, heavier. The bear in him is already pressing at the skin. “We’re going.”

I’m already dialing a second number.

Rhevan Ashcroft answers on the first ring like he was waiting for the world to end.

“Vaelor.”

“She’s gone,” I say.

The line goes silent so hard it’s like all sound drops out of existence.

Then Rhevan’s voice comes back, low and controlled—dangerously controlled. “Tell me everything.”

I give him the facts in clipped bursts. Stairwell. Brinks. Van. Alley. No plates. Professional.

When I’m done, there’s a sound on the other end—like something breaking.

“Send me the address,” he says. “I’m five minutes out.”

“You won’t make it in a car,” Bramrik growls, already shrugging into his coat like the fabric is insulting him.

Rhevan exhales once, sharp. “Then I’ll run.”

Soryn’s eyes flick to mine. We shift.

Elowen’s voice is calm, but there’s something venomous beneath it. “If they touched her—”

“They did,” I cut in. I can still see her wrists in my mind, cuffed and drained. Her mouth set in that stubborn line she gets when she refuses to be afraid.

My chest goes tight. Rage tries to eat my ribs.

“We don’t think,” I say, voice dropping. “We move.”

Bramrik is already at the door. Soryn’s burner is in his hand, his thumb flying over it to send out alerts—eyes on the board, eyes on the roads, eyes on every shadow that ever looked at Sera too long.

Elowen is beside me in a heartbeat. “Transport?”

“We take the roof,” I say.

There’s an old service tower attached to the building we use when we need speed without witnesses—private access, reinforced landing pad, and enough distance from the main streets that nobody asks why four apex shifters are about to disappear into the night.

We don’t take cars.

We take bodies.

We take beasts.

We hit the roof and the air is cold and sharp enough to bite. The city is a sprawl of lights under us, too peaceful for what just happened. Too normal.

Bramrik’s breath fogs in front of his face. His eyes are already animal-bright.

I look at them—my brothers in everything but blood—and something raw claws up my throat.

We raised her.

We trained her.

We swore—quietly, privately—that she would never be alone in the dark.

And now she is.

“Shift,” I order.

The word isn’t command. It’s permission. It’s the last thread holding restraint in place.

Bramrik goes first.

His spine arches, bones rolling under skin like a landslide. He drops to all fours, breath ripping out of him, and then the bear takes him—massive, hulking, fur dark as wet earth. Bigger than any natural thing should be. War-bred. Crowned. His claws score the roof as he turns his head toward me, eyes burning.

Soryn’s shift is quieter.

He simply… becomes.

One moment a man in black, the next a panther-shaped shadow with muscle like coiled steel and eyes like midnight glass. He pads forward without sound, tail flicking once—impatient.

Elowen’s change is cold and elegant. Predator made of speed and precision—his animal form long-limbed and lethal, coat a pale smoke-color that makes him look like a ghost until he moves and you realize he’s real and hungry.

Then it’s my turn.

My ribs expand. My teeth ache. My hands flex and the world tilts as the Lycan in me climbs up and over.

It’s always violent. It’s always relief.

I drop into four limbs that hit the roof like a promise. Fur ripples over my shoulders, silver-black, thick and bristling. My body is bigger than it should be—taller at the shoulder than most men stand, built like a war machine with a wolf’s grace and a king’s fury.

The air fills with our scent—predator, pack, blood hate.

We launch off the roof.

The city blurs. Wind tears past my face. Concrete becomes distance and then memory as we hit alleys, cut through industrial lanes, leap fences like they’re nothing.

This is transport. This is what we are.

Fast enough that the world can’t catch up.

Bramrik’s paws hit ground like thunder. Soryn is a shadow beside him. Elowen moves like a knife thrown ahead.

I lead, because my nose is the best of us when it matters and because I can feel Sera’s absence like an open wound.

We reach her building in under five minutes.

The service alley is already disturbed. Tire marks. A dropped can. A smear of something dark on the concrete where she fought.

I lower my head and inhale.

Fear. Disinfectant. Leather. A faint metallic tang—brinks.

And Sera.

Faint, fading, but there.

My chest tightens so hard it hurts.

A figure drops into the alley from above—fast, controlled.

Rhevan lands on two feet, human form still holding, eyes wild and furious. He’s younger than us. He carries the Ashcroft blood in his posture like a blade.

He takes one look at us—four beasts the size of nightmares—and doesn’t flinch. He just steps closer, voice low.

“Which way?”

I swing my head toward the tire marks. Soryn is already moving, nose to the ground like a hunter. Elowen’s ears flick, catching distant sound.

Bramrik lets out a sound that is almost a growl and almost a prayer.

We run.

Out of the city. Into the tree line. The road turns to gravel. The scent shifts—pine, damp earth, exhaust.

Then—

Metal.

Rubber.

Blood.

Fresh.

The van.

It’s not upright.

It’s on its side in a shallow ditch, torn open like something ripped it apart. Glass is scattered like ice. One wheel still spins, useless, ticking down.

My heart slams. My head whips side to side.

Sera’s scent hits me—stronger now.

Alive.

And underneath it—male sweat, panic, gun oil, and the sharp chemical bite of suppressants.

They’re here.

Not all dead.

Not yet.

Bramrik charges first, because Bramrik has never understood the meaning of wait when the thing he cares about is on the line.

He hits the wreck like a boulder through a wall.

A man crawls out the back door, blood on his forehead, weapon in hand. He raises it—

Soryn is on him before his finger tightens.

Panther jaws clamp. There’s a scream that cuts off into a wet choke. Soryn shakes once, violent and efficient.

Elowen is already circling, eyes scanning for a second threat. He moves with precision, not rage—rage wastes time.

I slam my paw down on the van door and rip it open.

Metal shrieks.

Inside, there are bodies. Two men, groaning, trying to crawl. One reaches for a knife.

I don’t give him the chance.

My teeth close around his shoulder and I drag him out like he weighs nothing. He hits the ground and tries to roll away.

Bramrik’s claw catches him across the back.

Blood sprays dark across gravel.

The man screams.

Rhevan’s voice cracks like a whip behind us. “Sera!”

My head snaps toward the sound.

There—half inside the wreck, half out—hands bound, wrists cuffed with black metal, hair a dark spill against the van floor.

Her eyes are open.

Not unfocused. Not broken.

Furious.

Alive.

My entire body locks for half a second. Relief tries to kill me. Devotion hits so hard it’s almost pain.

She’s there.

And she’s hurt.

And they did this.

The growl that rips out of me doesn’t sound like an animal.

It sounds like war.

Sera shifts, trying to push herself up, but the brinks are heavy on her. Her shoulders tremble with effort.

Rhevan reaches for her and one of the kidnappers lunges from behind the wreck with a gun, eyes wild.

“No!” Sera shouts, voice raw.

I move.

I hit the man mid-lunge, jaws snapping shut around his forearm. The gun goes flying. He screams, kicking, trying to free himself.

I bite harder.

Bone gives.

He howls.

Elowen’s predator form slams into the second attacker from the side, taking him down in a blur of teeth and claws. It’s vicious. Clean. It ends fast.

Bramrik is a wall of fur and rage, holding the perimeter, snarling at anything that twitches.

Soryn is already stalking toward the last conscious man, tail low, eyes bright with something cold. The man raises shaking hands, babbling.

“Wait—wait—listen—”

Soryn doesn’t wait.

He pins him with one massive paw, claws digging in just enough to make the man scream. Then he lowers his head, breath hot over the man’s face, and I can almost hear the question he’s asking without words:

Who sent you?

The man sobs. “I don’t— I don’t know, I swear—”

Sera’s breath hitches. Her gaze finds mine—sharp, furious, exhausted. Even drained, she’s still her.

And then her eyes flick past me, to Rhevan.

Something in her expression softens for a fraction of a heartbeat.

A crack in the steel.

Rhevan drops to his knees beside her, hands shaking as he reaches for her face but stops short like he’s terrified to touch the wrong place.

“Sera,” he whispers, voice breaking. “Sera, baby—”

Her mouth tightens. “Don’t,” she rasped. “Don’t— do that. Not now.”

He swallows hard, nodding like he’s swallowing the entire world with it.

I step closer, lowering my massive head, careful not to crowd her. My breath hits her hair. Her scent fills my lungs.

Alive.

I nudge her shoulder gently with my muzzle—touch, proximity, promise.

Her eyes close for half a second.

Then she opens them again, and the fury is back. “Get these off,” she says, voice hoarse. “Now.”

Rhevan fumbles for the cuffs, fingers slick with panic. “I— I can’t—”

Elowen shifts closer, his predator form lowering beside Sera with unnatural care for something so lethal. He studies the brinks like they’re a puzzle he wants to murder.

Soryn’s head lifts sharply from the pinned man—he’s listening, always listening. Bramrik paces, snarling, impatient.

Rhevan looks up at me, eyes wild. “Vaelor—”

I don’t answer with words.

I shift.

Bones fold. Fur recedes. Breath returns in a rush. In one brutal heartbeat, I’m on my knees beside her as a man, hands already on the cuffs.

Cold metal. Sanctioned design. A locking mechanism that’s meant to be removed with a key.

My jaw tightens until it aches.

I look at Sera’s face—pale with exhaustion, jaw set, eyes burning.

“You did good,” I say quietly.

Her lips part like she’s about to say something sharp. Instead, she swallows and her throat works around a shaky breath.

“Don’t,” she whispers, echoing what she said to Rhevan. But her gaze stays on mine.

Devotion hits me like a blade under the ribs.

I lean closer, voice low enough that only she hears. “I’m not here to praise you,” I murmur. “I’m here to end them.”

Her breath shudders. “Good.”

Behind us, Soryn snarls—a sound that means the man under him said something worth killing over.

“Elowen,” Soryn says, voice tight. “He’s got a contact. A drop phrase. He’s not top, but he’s not nobody.”

Rhevan’s head snaps up. “Say it.”

The man chokes out words between sobs, “—High Regent—”

My blood goes ice-cold.

Elowen’s eyes sharpen.

Bramrik makes a sound that is pure murder.

Sera’s lashes flutter, her face tightening like she’s trying to hold herself together through sheer will.

The brinks hum faintly on her wrists.

I force my hands to steady. “Rhevan,” I say, sharp. “Hold her shoulders. Keep her still.”

He obeys instantly, hands bracing her with a gentleness that looks like worship.

I reach for my knife.

And for a moment, just a moment, I let myself feel what I’ve been choking down for years.

That she’s not just a protected girl. Not just an obligation. Not just my friend’s daughter.

She’s mine in the way all of us have been denying—because wanting her felt like betrayal, and because letting ourselves want her felt like painting a target on her back.

But the target is here anyway.

And they already pulled the trigger.

So there’s no restraint left to pretend at.

Then I turn toward the man who said High Regent like it was nothing.