The hallway was clear, but the pounding of boots and the static of radios echoed like a closing trap. They were coming.
I turned toward the sound, my lips pulling back from my teeth in a silent snarl. I didn't run from the footsteps. I launched myself toward them, a black phantom flowing through the harsh electric light. Let them see the monster. Let them fear the panther. Every eye on me was an eye not searching for her.
I became a shadow, a streak of liquid night flowing through the sterile, brightly lit hallways. The first two officers rounding the corner didn't even have time to raise their weapons. I was on them, a whirlwind of calculated violence. The butt of my pistol cracked against a temple; a sharp, targeted kick shattered a kneecap. They went down without a shot fired, creating a temporary barricade of groaning bodies and confusion.
"Subject is headed for the west exit! He's armed and extremely dangerous!" a voice crackled over a fallen radio.
Good. Let them believe that.
I moved, a predator using their own noise and panic as cover. My ears, sharper and more sensitive in this heightened state, filtered through the chaos. And then I heard it, the sound that overrode every tactical thought.
A panicked, feminine gasp, followed by a sharp, "Let me go!" It was Bella. And she wasn't alone.
The scent of her fear, laced with that intoxicating wine, cut through the air like a beacon. It led not toward an exit, but deeper into the building, toward the old library wing. Jack hadn't reached her in time. Someone else had found her first.
A new kind of rage, cold and absolute, eclipsed everything. The mission parameters had just changed again. The police were no longer the primary threat.
I changed direction, abandoning my path to the exit. The hunter was done being the distraction.
Now, he was coming for what was his.
I followed the scent trail, a silent phantom in the chaos. Her fear was a bright, piercing thread in the air, leading me away from the shouting and deeper into the silent, cavernous halls of the old library.
The door to the rare manuscripts room was slightly ajar. I slipped inside, the scent of old paper and dust now thick with the metallic tang of Bella's terror. And with it, another scent. Alpha. Arrogant. Unfamiliar.
The sight in the dim light sent a wave of pure, undiluted fury through me.
A man in a security uniform, not campus police, one of my men, a low-level enforcer named Marcus, had Bella pinned against a study carrel. One hand was clamped over her mouth, the other gripped her arm, his body crowding her.
"Stop squirming, you little—" he snarled.
He never finished.
I didn't speak. I didn't warn him. I simply crossed the room in two long, silent strides.
My hand locked onto the back of his neck. His eyes went wide with primal recognition a second before I slammed his face into the solid oak of the carrel with a sickening, wet crunch. He crumpled to the floor, unconscious, a dark pool already spreading beneath his head.
I didn't even look at him.
My focus was entirely on Bella. She was trembling, her eyes wide, staring at the fallen man, then at me. The scent of her fear was now mixed with shock.
I reached for her, my voice a low, guttural rasp that vibrated with a fury born of sheer, undiluted terror.
"Are you crazy?" I snarled, pulling her to me. "Who taught you to run toward a police swarm when there's a murder scene?"
Before she could answer, The library doors burst open. But it wasn't the police.
It was a figure in a sleek, dark coat. Her movements were too fluid, too familiar. The air in the room shifted, charged with a sharp, familial energy.
The figure pushed her hood back, revealing a woman with mischievous eyes and a familiar, infuriating smirk. Lyra. Her snake-shaped tongue flicked out in a quick, unsettling gesture as her gaze swept over the unconscious guard at my feet, then landed on me.
"Come on," she said, her voice a teasing melody that grated on my last nerve. "Won't you greet your older sister who just came to save your clumsy ass? I just came back home, and what do I find? You, already in trouble."
I sighed, a wave of profound relief and immediate annoyance washing over me. Lyra. Of course.
She took a step closer, her scent of sunshine and gunpowder—a bizarre combination that was entirely her—filling the space. "And you must be the reason," she said, her eyes flicking to a wide-eyed Bella. "He always did have a flair for the dramatic when he found something pretty to chase."
This was complicated. Lyra wasn't just my sister; she was a wild card, unpredictable and brilliant. The police were a temporary inconvenience. Lyra's arrival was a hurricane.
I met her gaze, my voice flat.
"I had it under control."
Her smirk widened.
"You always were a terrible liar, little brother."