The tarmac of the Blackthorn Academy is bathed in the harsh, blinding glare of floodlights. The air is freezing, smelling of jet fuel, damp earth, and the sharp, metallic tang of ozone.
I stand at the base of the ramp of the Artemis VII, the modified UN stealth transport. My heavily bandaged hands are trembling slightly beneath my tactical cloak. My ribs ache with every shallow breath, but the physical pain is entirely eclipsed by the cold, hard knot of terror in my stomach.
Kade stands in front of me. He is leaning heavily on his carbon-fiber cane, his left sleeve pinned neatly to his chest. Through the mate bond, I feel his profound, suffocating rage, warring with his terrifying, suffocating love.
You’re not going, Kade projects, his mental voice a dark, gravelly rasp. Isla, she’s eig
