Lyra's POVThe walls were closing in on me. Not really, but that's how it felt, like the room was shrinking with every breath I took. I sat on the floor with my back against the bed, my knees pulled up to my chest, staring at the locked door and imagining all the ways I wanted to hurt every last one of them.I could picture it so clearly. Walking downstairs, grabbing Silas by the collar, slamming Jeremy into the wall, throwing Caspian through the kitchen window. The images were satisfying in my head. Brutal and clean and final.But that's all they were. Images.Because the truth, the ugly, humiliating truth, was that I would lose. If I went down there right now and tried to fight them, I wouldn't last thirty seconds. The last time I shifted, I was a disaster. I didn't just attack the rogues. I attacked everyone. The brothers, the pack members, people who were trying to help me. I was a weapon with no aim, swinging in every direction, and the only reason nobody died was because Raphael
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