Mated To Valentine
“The Ascendants are back. We’re never leaving this level.”
Achilles lets out a low whistle. “Shit. Alright, then.”
My stomach twists. “What level?”
Achilles doesn’t answer. Instead, he rolls up his sleeve, revealing his forearm.
His right hand shifts—his fingers elongating, nails sharpening into curved claws.
Then, without hesitation, he drags his claws across his wrist.
A clean, precise cut. Blood wells instantly.
I lurch forward, alarmed. “What the hell—”
Valentine catches my wrist before I can stop him. “Watch.”