Fated Mate, Mafia Target

"If you die out there, don't expect me to carry the corpse back."

Cain didn't look at me as he shoved a tactical vest toward my chest. The heavy Kevlar hit my bruised ribs, drawing a sharp hiss from my teeth. He was busy checking the slide on a silver-weighted handgun, his movements mechanical and cold.

"The High King wants a healer," I said, my voice sounding foreign even to me. I strapped the vest over my medical kit, the weight dragging at my shoulders. "I didn't ask for this, Cain."

"Nobody cares what you asked for, puppy." Rowan’s voice scraped like sandpaper from the locker room door. He stood there with Seraphina, both of them dressed in black tactical gear that screamed privilege and lethality. Rowan spat on the floor near my boots. "We’re supposed to be the Elite Team. Now we’re a daycare center for a charity case."

"She’s a liability," Seraphina added, her eyes raking over my glasses and messy braid with pure vitriol. "The woods are full of rogues. One stray scent of Omega fear and they’ll be on us like flies on rot. Cain, tell the Director she's a mistake."

Cain slammed the magazine into his weapon with a deafening clack. The sound echoed through the concrete room, silencing them. He finally turned, his obsidian eyes landing on me. There was no warmth, only a grim, suffocating intensity.

"She stays," Cain said, his voice a low vibration. "But she isn't part of the team. She’s equipment. If she falls behind, leave her. If she screams, ignore her. We have a mission to complete."

He stepped past me, his shoulder glancing off mine. The jolt of the bond was a sudden, white-hot needle in my heart, but I clamped my jaw shut. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing me flinch. I gripped the straps of my medical kit until my knuckles turned white. They wanted me dead. They wanted the "specimen" to disappear in the dark.

I followed them out into the biting chill of the midnight woods.

The forest was a wall of black. The Iron Moon Academy woods weren't just trees; they were a labyrinth designed to break shifters. We moved in a diamond formation, with me forced into the exposed rear. Every snap of a twig made my skin crawl.

The "simulation" was supposed to be a standard extraction drill. But the air felt wrong. It didn't smell like the ozone of training flashbangs; it smelled like rot and sulfur.

"Scent check," Cain commanded, his hand going up.

Before Rowan could respond, a canister hissed from the canopy above.

A thick, mustard-colored fog rolled across the forest floor. "Wolfsbane!" Lucien yelled, his voice muffled by a sudden cough.

The gas was a nightmare. It didn't just burn the lungs; it forced the wolf back into the skin, causing the bones to grind against each other as they tried to shift and failed. Rowan let out a pathetic whimper, collapsing to one knee and covering his face.

"Hold the line!" Cain roared, but he was fighting his own body, his claws extending and retracting in a sickening display of agony.

Shadows detached themselves from the trees. Not students. Mercenaries. They wore gas masks and carried jagged silver blades.

A massive brute, his arms the size of tree trunks, lunged through the fog toward a disoriented Seraphina. She was coughing, blinded by the gas, her hands clawing at the air.

I didn't think. My body moved before my mind could protest. I swung my heavy metal oxygen canister with everything I had.

Crack.

The metal connected with the mercenary’s temple. He grunted, his head snapping back as he stumbled into the brush.

"Lucien!" I screamed, seeing him take a serrated blade to the shoulder as he tried to cover the flank.

I dove through the dirt, sliding next to him. The blood was dark, pulsing—he’d hit an artery. The wolfsbane in the air made my own head spin, but the silver light in my palms began to glow, unbidden and fierce.

"Don't... Favor, get back..." Lucien wheezed.

"Shut up," I snapped. I ripped a packet of hemostatic gauze from my kit. I didn't have time for a clean room. I didn't have time for a prayer. I jammed my fingers into the wound, the silver light from my skin searing the edges of the tear.

Around us, the world was a blur of violence. Cain was a hurricane of black fur and gore, his shift half-formed but lethal as he tore through the masked men. He moved with a clinical, terrifying grace, his eyes locked on every threat.

I ignored the spray of blood on my face. I ignored the screams. I performed a field cauterization with nothing but my own raw energy and a strip of gauze. Lucien’s breathing stabilized, the gray tint leaving his face.

I looked up just as Cain snapped the neck of the last man standing near us. The mercenary’s mask fell away.

The dying man stared at me, his eyes widening in shock. "The daughter... of Adelaide..." he rasped, blood bubbling in his throat. "The specimen lives..."

Cain’s foot slammed onto the man’s throat, crushing his windpipe before he could say another word.

The silence that followed was heavier than the gas.

Cain turned to me, his chest heaving, his suit jacket shredded and soaked in blood. He looked at my glowing hands, then at the dead man who had known my mother’s real name.

"Favor," he rasped.

An explosion rocked the ground ten yards away—a secondary trap. Cain didn't hesitate. He lunged, his large frame slamming into me and knocking us both into the hollowed-out base of a massive, ancient oak.

He pinned me against the damp wood, his body acting as a shield against the raining debris and fire. I could hear his heart—it was drumming a frantic, possessive rhythm against my chest. His scent, usually so cold, was now a wildfire of sandalwood and protective rage.

"Baelor," he whispered, his forehead resting against mine. "The mark on their gear... they’re Baelor’s hunters. They weren't here for the Academy. They were here for you."

His hand came up, his thumb brushing a smear of blood off my cheek. For the first time, there was no hate in his touch. There was a terrifying, territorial hunger.

"Why didn't you run?" he asked, his voice a jagged growl. "You could have let them take Seraphina. You could have left Lucien."

"I'm a healer, Cain," I breathed, my heart staccato against his. "Not a murderer."

"In this world, they're the same thing," he said. He didn't pull away. He stayed there, shielding me, his wolf purring a dark, vibrating warning to the forest.

The fire died down to embers. The mist cleared, revealing the carnage of the "trial."

"Impressive," a voice drifted through the clearing.

We stepped out from the tree. Morwen Ashveil stood there, her silver eyes reflecting the moon. She didn't look at the dead mercenaries. She didn't look at the wounded students. She looked at me.

Specifically, she looked at my eyes. I could feel them—they were burning, a deep, liquid silver that felt like it was pouring through my veins.

"The blood of Alaric finally stirs," Morwen whispered, a slow, triumphant smile spreading across her face. "The experiment is a success."

Cain stepped in front of me, his claws sliding out, a low, murderous snarl ripping from his chest. He was no longer the obedient heir. He was a beast guarding his kill.

"Move, Director," Cain warned.

Morwen laughed, a cold, tinkling sound that made the hair on my neck stand up. "Oh, Cain. Put your toys away. You can’t protect her here. Not anymore."

She held up a gold-sealed scroll. "The High King has seen the feed. He doesn't want a medical servant anymore. He wants the Silverwyn girl at the Lyperia Palace. Immediately."

She looked back at me, her eyes twin pits of ice. "Your life as a 'puppy' is over, Favor. But don't worry. The Palace has much larger cages."

I looked at Cain. His jaw was clenched so tight I heard the bone groan. He didn't move from his position in front of me, but I saw the flicker of dread in his eyes.

I wasn't just his mate anymore. I was a weapon of war. And the war had just started.

"We go together," Cain said, his voice a promise of blood.

Favor felt the locket around her neck pulse one last time before going cold.