Aryanna POV:
Damien flinched as if struck. He straightened his shoulders, trying to reclaim some of his lost authority.
"Brother," he said, his voice tight. "I am punishing a traitor. She leaked pack intelligence to the Bloodstones."
Dennison didn't even look at him. His gaze remained fixed on me, intense and unreadable. A man beside him, his second-in-command by the look of his armor, spoke up. His voice was firm. "Alpha Damien, any execution requires a full trial by the Elder council. You do not have the authority to carry out a sentence on your own."
Damien's face flushed with anger. "I am the future Alpha! I have every right—"
"Unchain her," Dennison commanded. The order was quiet, almost conversational, but it held the weight of absolute law.
Damien's jaw clenched. To obey would be to admit his brother's superiority in front of the entire pack. To refuse was unthinkable.
"She is a traitor," Damien repeated, his voice a low growl. "I will not."
The air crackled. A pressure, immense and suffocating, slammed down on the square. It was Dennison's Alpha presence, a physical force that buckled knees and stole breath. Damien staggered back a step, his face paling. The crowd, as one, fell to their knees, heads bowed.
Dennison swung himself off his horse in one fluid motion. His boots crunched on the gravel as he walked towards me, his black armor seeming to absorb the very light around him. He moved with the lethal grace of a predator.
He stopped directly in front of me, ignoring his brother as if he were a piece of furniture. He studied the heavy iron cuffs on my wrists.
"I can do it myself," I whispered, my voice raspy from disuse.
Dennison paused. His silver eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of surprise in their depths. He didn't move, didn't speak. He just watched, waiting.
I took a ragged breath, pushing past the fire in my back. I focused on my right hand, visualizing the anatomy. The carpometacarpal joint of the thumb. A saddle joint. With the right pressure and rotation...
I twisted my hand sharply.
A sickening pop echoed in the silence. A bolt of agony shot up my arm, but I bit back a scream. My thumb was dislocated. My hand, now smaller and more pliable, slipped easily from the iron cuff.
A collective gasp went through the crowd. Roxanne let out a small shriek.
Without pausing, I brought my freed hand to my dislocated thumb and, with another grimace of pain, snapped the joint back into place. The sound was small, but in the dead quiet, it was like a gunshot.
Then I repeated the process on my other hand. Pop. Slide. Pop.
The chains fell from my wrists, clattering against the stone. I did the same for my ankles, my movements economical and precise.
Free.
I pushed myself away from the gate and dropped to the ground, landing in a crouch. My legs trembled from weakness and pain, but I forced myself to stand. I stood before Dennison Russo, bloody and battered, but unbroken.
"She's a demon!" Roxanne shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at me.
That was the final straw for Damien. His face contorted in a mask of pure rage. The public humiliation was too much. With a roar, he lunged for me.
Dennison moved without seeming to move at all. He shifted his weight, placing his body between me and his brother. Damien crashed into him like a wave against a cliff. He didn't budge.
"She is under my protection now," Dennison stated, his voice flat and final.
But I wasn't looking for protection. My eyes were locked on Roxanne. And on the ornate dagger she wore at her hip—a gift from Damien, a cruel reminder of what should have been mine.
In a burst of adrenaline-fueled speed, I ducked under Dennison's arm. I was a wraith, a blur of motion. Before Roxanne could even process what was happening, I was on her.
My hand closed around the hilt of the dagger. I ripped it from its sheath.
Roxanne's eyes widened in terror. She opened her mouth to scream, but I was faster. I grabbed a fistful of her fiery red hair, yanking her head back to expose the smooth, pale column of her throat.
"Aryanna, stop!" Damien bellowed, struggling uselessly against his brother's unyielding hold.
I didn't hesitate. My movements were a surgeon's. Precise. Efficient. Deadly. The blade was a silver flash in the sunlight. I drew it across her throat, severing her carotid artery with practiced ease.
There was a wet, tearing sound.
Blood, shockingly red, sprayed across the gray stones.
The world went silent.
Roxanne collapsed at my feet, a gurgling sound escaping her lips. Her eyes, wide with disbelief, stared up at the sky as the life drained out of her.
I let the dagger fall from my numb fingers. It clattered on the ground, the sound unnaturally loud.
I turned to face the stunned, horrified face of Damien Russo.
"An insult for an insult," I said, my voice a dead, cold thing. "A life for a life."
The strength that had surged through me vanished as quickly as it had come. The world tilted on its axis. The pain in my back, the exhaustion, the blood loss—it all came crashing down on me at once.
My knees buckled.
Darkness swarmed at the edges of my vision.
As I fell, a pair of strong arms caught me. I was pulled against a chest as hard as iron plate. The scent of pine, winter frost, and something else—something wild and powerful that called to a part of me I didn't know existed—filled my senses.
Then, nothing.
