Chapter 51
Elora
The manacles bit into Elora’s skin, cold iron against tender flesh, a reminder of the prison she was willingly walking into.
She sat in the cramped hold of the transport vessel, back pressed against the damp wooden wall, trying to ignore the sickening sway as the ship cut through choppy waters.
The air hung thick with salt and fear—mostly from the children huddled at the far end of the hold, their wide eyes reflecting what little light filtered through the wooden slats above.
Orphans from the bombing. Florence had referred to them as the perfect cover for their infiltration.
Rell’s shoulder pressed against hers, and she let it. That was the problem—she kept letting it. There weren’t many eyes on them yet, but she knew that she should pretend there was. Beneath the manacles, his fingertips traced small circles on her skin, and she tracked each one like a lifeline.
Rell had needed a role worth keeping—Thorn wouldn’t suffer a common bounty hunter for long.
So, he’d become her handler instead, a man with specialized knowledge: pressure points, trigger phrases, some claim to understanding her particular energies.
The kind of expertise that made him indispensable.
She was meant to bristle at everyone else, docile only for him, and Thorn’s hungry curiosity would do the rest—keep him wondering, keep Rell close.
It deliberately drew Thorn to him which was the last thing she wanted. She hated it.
“How much longer?” she whispered.
“A few hours.” His hand caressed her arm, meant to soothe, and she hated how desperately she wanted it to work. “Try to rest.”
They had three days at The Hive to rehearse their roles.
Florence: the wealthy niece returning to reconcile with her uncle, bearing the most valuable of gifts—his escaped experiment, his instrument of revenge, his humiliator.
Rell’s role was simpler in theory: don’t care.
Don’t ask how she slept. No touches. Don’t step in when fear closed around her throat like a fist. He was not particularly good at it.
Elora had only two states to practice: uncontrolled animalistic rage—easy to trigger if she thought about Thorn—and docile calm in Rell’s presence.
Both came too naturally. So did a third state, one nobody had assigned her—a fear so total it left no room for anything else. She buried that one as best she could.
Sweat beaded along her spine despite the chill of the hold. The beast inside her paced restlessly, claws scratching just beneath her skin.
Florence sat across from them, her back straight, chin lifted with that perfect aristocratic poise that Thorn would expect. Her eyes met Elora’s briefly before sliding away, maintaining the fiction that she was merely the buyer, not the architect of this entire scheme.
The ship pitched suddenly, wood groaning around them.
A child’s whimper pierced the heavy silence.
Florence stood, her balance perfect despite the pitching deck, and glided toward the huddled forms. She knelt, whispering something that made small shoulders relax, and brushed tears away with manicured fingers.
Elora watched the performance with a twist in her gut—Florence playing the role of savior with such practiced choreography.
Each wave that lifted the ship brought her closer to The Institute. The plan had sounded simple at The Hive. Controlled. Clinical.
Now every mile stripped that certainty away.
Her gaze drifted to Rell. The rough stubble along his jaw completed the illusion of a hardened mercenary, but she still noticed the way his eyes softened when they met hers. The manner in which his fingers brushed against her skin beneath the manacles like he couldn’t help himself.
It needed to stop.
The thought came sharp and immediate, but she couldn’t force herself to pull away.
Instead, she leaned into the warmth of his shoulder as another wave rocked the ship, pretending the tightness in her chest came from the sea beneath them rather than the growing certainty that this mission was already slipping beyond either of their control.
Her eyelids grew heavy, the gentle rocking of the ship and the comfort of Rell’s body beside her lulling her toward exhaustion. She’d barely slept these past three days. Now her body demanded rest, regardless of the circumstances.
Elora fought against it, blinking rapidly to clear the fog from her vision.
She couldn’t afford to show vulnerability, not here, not with Florence watching, not with children who might report strange behavior once they reached shore.
But gods, she wanted to lean into Rell, to rest her head against his shoulder and close her eyes, just for a moment.
Rell’s voice was barely a breath against her ear. “Get some sleep. I got this.”
She shook her head slightly. “I don’t want to. Not here.” But even as she said it, her body betrayed her, swaying slightly toward him.
“The Thrask don’t need as much sleep,” she murmured, knowing the words rang false even as they left her lips. “I’ll be fine.”
Rell’s soft chuckle rumbled through her. “Sunshine, you’ve been nodding off for the past hour. I’ll wake you up at the first sign of nightmares.”
“You’re not supposed to—” Elora began, but the words slipped away as exhaustion finally claimed her.
Darkness swallowed her whole.
The ship, the children, the salt-damp air—all of it dissolved into an endless void where no light lived.
Elora stood on four legs now, her nightglider form solid and familiar in this empty space.
Muscles coiled beneath black fur, wings folded tight against her flanks, every sense sharpened to a razor’s edge.
A figure stood ahead, back turned, shoulders draped in familiar academic robes. Salt-and-pepper hair. The precise, measured posture of a man accustomed to absolute authority.
Thorn.
Something ignited in her chest, primal and total, burning away every other thought. The wings folded tighter. Her body dropped low, muscles coiling with the slow, devastating patience of a predator who has all the time in the world and intends to use none of it.
She struck from behind—no warning, no hesitation. Fangs sank deep into the juncture of neck and shoulder. Claws raked downward, opening flesh like parchment. Hot blood flooded her mouth, copper and salt and a violent surge of pleasure that made her stomach twist even inside the dream.
The shift tore itself apart beneath her skin. Bones cracked. Wings collapsed inward. She hit the ground on trembling hands, human again, breathless and shaking.
“There she is.”
The voice froze her in place.
Thorn stood beside her, immaculate and untouched. He smiled down at her with that familiar, terrible fondness.
“Look at what you’ve done,” he said, gesturing toward the body.
She tried to move.
Tried to wake.
Her body knelt motionless beside the corpse while Thorn watched her with quiet amusement. But her hands moved of their own accord, reaching for the corpse’s shoulder, rolling it onto its back.
Rell’s eyes stared up at her, glassy and empty. His throat was torn open where her fangs had ripped through flesh and tendon. Blood still seeped from the wounds and pooled beneath him.
She jolted awake with a gasp, tears cooling on her cheeks. The hold was darker now, the quality of light changed. How long had she been asleep? Minutes? Hours? Her throat felt raw, as if she’d been screaming, though she knew she hadn’t made a sound.
A horn blasted somewhere above them, the vibration rumbling through the wooden planks. Rell’s hand gripped her shoulder, his warmth the only constant between her nightmares and waking.
“We’ve reached the port,” he whispered, his breath warm against her ear. “Are you alright?”
She nodded, not trusting her voice yet. The tears had left salty tracks down her face. She couldn’t wipe them away with the manacles digging into her wrists.
Maybe that was for the best.
The ship rocked beneath them as boots thumped overhead. Men shouted orders to one another, their voices muffled through the wooden planks. Elora’s stomach clenched as reality crashed back over her. This was happening. The Institute waited just beyond those docks.
The children were herded up the stairs first, their small forms hunched with fear as they climbed toward whatever fate awaited them.
Florence stood next, her fingers trailing over the rich fabric of her traveling gown as she composed herself for the performance ahead.
She looked so different from the mercenary she met at The Hive.
The woman with sharp features, scars she wore proudly, leather armor and daggers strapped to every limb.
Thorn couldn’t know she was the leader of The Hive.
She was a noble woman, her make-up softening her skin to hide the ruggedness from battles, her cheeks fuller to look more like the young girl Thorn remembered.
She told them to wait until her signal, Thorn loved a spectacle, then ascended the steps without a backward glance.
The hold emptied, leaving only her and Rell in the darkening space.
The moment the others vanished up the stairs, Rell closed the distance between them.
His calloused palm found the nape of her neck, drawing her forward until she felt his breath against her lips.
Heat radiated from his fingertips through her skin, the gentleness of his grip at odds with their charade.
“Last chance,” he murmured, voice like gravel. “Say the word and these chains disappear.” His thumb traced her pulse point. “You transform, take to the sky, and we devise another strategy.”
Something wild fluttered in Elora’s chest. For one breathless moment, she imagined the wind beneath her wings, freedom stretching before her.
Her other self thrashed against its cage of bone and sinew, urging her to continue.
To tear into Thorn and be done with it. She swallowed hard and shook her head.
Rell’s exhale brushed her cheek, carrying resignation in its warmth.
She recognized that sound—his silent plea for her to flee while she still could.
After checking the stairway for witnesses, he returned his attention to her, eyes falling to her lips with unmistakable intent.
She wanted to tell him no, but the ache in her chest blossomed as she gave the barest nod.
His mouth found hers, gentle yet insistent, his hand cradling her neck as the kiss deepened.
When they parted, his lips pressed briefly against her forehead before he gathered her against him.
“Promise me something, Sunshine,” he murmured against her hair. “When Thorn tests your boundaries, remember where they are.”
She pressed her face into the solid warmth of his chest, answering without words.
“Come,” he said, louder now, slipping back into his role as her handler. “Time to present you to your master.”