Chapter 12
DECLAN
I'm reviewing patrol schedules when the mate bond explodes.
No warning. No buildup. Just Eliza's terror slamming through the connection hard enough to drop me to my knees, a snarl ripping from my throat. Every instinct screams to shift, to run, to kill whatever's threatening her.
Eliza.
"Alpha?" Jax is at my side instantly, hand on my shoulder. He's been shadowing me since the hunt, his loyalty to Eliza now absolute. "What is it?"
"Flynn's Inn." The words come out more growl than speech. "She's in danger. Now."
“I thought she wasn’t to leave here…”
“She convinced several of the younger wolves to go with her. I think she was trying to prove something.”
Time is of the essence and I don't wait. I shift mid-stride, clothes shredding as fur erupts across my skin. Through the bond, I feel Eliza's fear spike, feel her adrenaline, feel the wrongness of violence happening around her.
Jax shifts beside me, his grey wolf keeping pace as we burst from Wolfstone.
The others are already moving—Tessa appearing from the woods on my right.
Even Rafe's panther form materializes from shadows on my left—he shouldn't be here, should be down at the docks, but the pack bond must have pulled him.
The connection between us hums with urgency, with shared purpose.
We run.
Flynn's Inn is two miles through forest and over rough terrain. We cover it in under four minutes, pushing shifter speed to its limit. As we break from the tree line, I hear it—gunfire, screams, the crash of breaking glass.
And underneath it all, Eliza's heartbeat through the bond, racing but strong. Still alive.
The inn's front windows are shattered. Bodies litter the street—unconscious or hiding, not dead. Smart islanders who know when to play dead. The front door hangs off its hinges, and inside I see muzzle flashes, hear the distinctive crack of gunfire that shouldn't exist on my island.
I shift back to human as I hit the doorway, needing hands and human speed for the narrow spaces inside. Jax follows my lead, both of us naked and battle-ready, our humanity a thin veneer over predator instinct.
The scene inside is chaos.
Six mercenaries—professionals by their tactical gear and coordinated movements. They wear body armor and carry weapons that gleam silver in the dim light. Silver rounds. Someone told them it would hurt more—they're not wrong.
Moira Flynn stands behind the bar, salt-cellar in one hand, the other raised in a gesture that looks ancient.
Three islanders huddle behind her—Old Tom Griggs, Sarah Thompson, and Eliza.
The fading marks from Jax's bite are barely visible on her left forearm, but her face is pale, her jaw set with determination.
A mercenary pivots toward them, raising his weapon.
I move.
The shift happens mid-leap, fur surging forward in a blur of fury. I hit the mercenary from the side, jaws closing around his gun arm. Bones crack. He screams. The weapon clatters to the floor.
Around me, the brotherhood erupts into violence.
Grayson crashes through the side door in full bear form.
He rears up on two legs—seven feet of muscle and rage—and positions himself between the civilians and the remaining mercenaries, becoming a living wall that bullets ping off almost harmlessly.
His enhanced hide can take small-arms fire, and he uses it.
Finn moves like water through the chaos, still in human form but with his eyes gone full reptilian-gold.
A mercenary tries to line up a shot. Finn exhales, and dragon fire streams from his lips—not enough to kill, but enough to force the man to drop his weapon and roll, screaming, as his tactical vest smolders.
Rafe and Kian are already inside, having come through the back.
The panther flows through shadows, disappearing into darkness before reappearing behind a mercenary, claws raking across the man's hamstrings.
The tiger moves like lightning, disarming another mercenary with brutal efficiency, jaws closing around the man's weapon hand with enough force to crush but not sever.
We're trying to minimize killing. Trying to avoid questions we can't answer.
I release the mercenary I've downed and shift back to human, grabbing his fallen weapon. The weight is unfamiliar—I prefer claws to guns—but I know how to use it. I put two rounds into the ceiling, the crack of gunfire loud enough to freeze everyone for a heartbeat.
"Drop your weapons!" The alpha command rolls through the room, hitting the mercenaries with physical force. It won't work on humans like it would on shifters, but the tone, the authority, the promise of violence in every syllable makes them hesitate.
That hesitation costs them.
The lead mercenary—taller than the others, with a scar bisecting his left eyebrow and dead eyes that mark him as a killer—doesn't drop his weapon. Instead, he moves fast, lunging forward to grab Eliza before anyone can react.
His arm wraps around her throat. His gun presses against her temple.
"Back off, or the girl dies."
The world goes red.
Every instinct I have screams for his death, demands I tear him apart for daring to touch what's mine. The mate bond floods with Eliza's fear, her pain as he tightens his grip, cutting off her air.
"Let her go." My voice doesn't sound human anymore.
"Not until we walk out of here." The mercenary backs toward the door, dragging Eliza with him. "Santos paid us fifty grand each. Said to make it hurt. Said you killed his brother."
Eliza's eyes meet mine. I see fear there, yes, but also calculation. She's thinking. Planning.
Her weight shifts slightly, and I know what she's doing.
I move the instant she does. She drops her full weight, becoming dead weight in the mercenary's grip. His hold loosens for a fraction of a second as he struggles to keep her upright.
That fraction is all I need.
I shift mid-leap. The mercenary tries to bring his gun around, his finger tightening on the trigger. The shot goes wide as my jaws close around his throat. No warning. No hesitation. I bite down and rip.
Hot copper floods my mouth. The mercenary makes a wet, gurgling sound and collapses, his weapon falling from nerveless fingers.
But not before a second shot fires.
Eliza cries out, stumbling backward. Red blooms on her right arm, just above the elbow. The bullet grazed her—not a direct hit—but the scent of her injury hits me like a physical blow.
The last shreds of my control snap.
But I don't lose myself to the rage. I become it. Cold. Efficient. Lethal.
I move through the remaining mercenaries like a force of nature—jaws, claws, brutal precision. No hesitation. No mercy. Just the absolute certainty that they threatened my mate and that means they die.
When I shift back to human, I'm standing over their bodies, my entire body shaking with residual fury and blood—most of it mine.
Rafe's panther form and Kian's tiger have the others pinned, massive paws on their backs, jaws close enough to their throats that the mercenaries don't dare move.
My hands still want to be claws, still want to tear and rend until nothing that threatened Eliza draws breath.
"Declan." Eliza's voice cuts through the red haze. "I'm okay. Look at me."
I go to her, crossing the destroyed inn in three strides.
My hands hover over her injured arm, afraid to touch, afraid I'll hurt her worse.
The bullet grazed her, leaving a furrow through skin and muscle that bleeds freely but not arterially.
Painful, but not life-threatening. Still, the knowledge that she was hurt while under my protection makes rage claw at my throat.
"Look at me," she repeats, placing her good hand on my chest. Through the bond, I feel her fear fading, replaced by concern for me. "Declan, I'm fine. You got here in time. We're both fine."
"You're bleeding."
"So are you."
I look down. She's right—there are gashes across my ribs where a knife found purchase during my blackout rage, claw marks on my shoulder from where one of the mercenaries fought back with enhanced strength. I didn't even feel them.
"Let me see that arm." Moira Flynn steps around Grayson's bulk, moving with the calm of someone who's seen violence before. In her hands, she carries a bowl of water that gleams strangely in the light, and the air around her tastes of salt and power.
I growl without meaning to, my instinct to keep everyone away from my injured mate.
"Down, boy." Moira's voice is dry, unimpressed by alpha posturing. "I've been tending bar and patching up idiots for a decade. Let me work."
Something in her tone penetrates the haze. I step back, though every fiber fights me.
Moira sets the bowl on a table that's miraculously still upright and dips her fingers in the water.
When she lifts them, salt crystals cling to her skin, glowing with soft white light.
She places her hand over Eliza's wound, and the scent of ocean magic fills the room—ancient, powerful, and utterly unexpected.
The bleeding stops immediately. The torn flesh begins to knit, closing enough that infection and further damage are no longer concerns. Eliza gasps in surprise.
"You're a sea witch." Finn's voice carries wonder and respect. "A true one. I thought they were gone."
"Not gone." Moira's fingers continue to work, the salt-water leaving glowing trails across Eliza's skin. "Just hidden. Someone had to watch over this place. Keep the old ways alive. The MacRaes aren't the only ones with responsibilities to Stormhaven."
She finishes with Eliza's arm and turns to survey the room. The civilians are still conscious, still staring at us with wide eyes that have seen far more than they should. Old Tom's mouth hangs open. Sarah Thompson has her phone out, though her hands shake.
"This is a problem," Jax says quietly. He's shifted back to human, standing guard over the subdued mercenaries. "They saw everything."