The Sovereign League

These rich pricks love a dinner.

Surviving didn't get me rest or therapy or twenty-four hours of uninterrupted sleep.

Nope. It got me a new freaking dress.

"It's not terrible," Allie says from the armchair beside the mirror.

The stylist shoots her an offended look.

"I mean... only it's not..." She shuts up.

"Thank you, Allie," I drawl dryly. "Your support is overwhelming."

I turn sideways and examine the gown they've poured me into. It's silver-blue, fitted through the chest and waist before spilling over my hips in layers of translucent fabric. The sleeves and shoulder pads are massive, pillowing out higher than my head. In addition to the ridiculousness are thousands of tiny, expensive crystals that catch the light whenever I move.

Azura's colours. Of course.

The League won't let a branding opportunity pass just because my body feels like it's been thrown off a building.

Repeatedly.

My ribs are strapped beneath the dress, my burned forearm is hidden under a sheer sleeve, and the worst of my bruises have disappeared beneath enough cosmetic cream to resurface half the walls in the Rookery. My hair falls in arranged waves instead of its usual braid, making me look softer than I feel. More expensive. Less likely to threaten anyone with a fork.

It's a pretty weak facade, all things considered.

The woman working on my face grips my chin and turns me towards the light. "The coverage is separating here." Her thumb presses the side of my throat, and I flinch.

She sighs. "Try not to move."

"Try not to jab the bruise."

"It isn't from the Game."

Allie's gaze lifts sharply from her tablet.

The stylist leans closer, studying the dark mark beneath my jaw with the detached interest of someone assessing damage to a piece of furniture. "This is a bite."

"No, it isn't."

"It has teeth marks."

I force a shrug. "Eight B had a difficult afternoon."

The woman stares at me. Allie makes a strangled noise that might be a laugh.

"Your dragon bit your neck?" the stylist asks. She, rightly, sounds sceptical.

Nope. Your Butcher Boy did. Seems he's got the hots for me even if he wants to kill me.

"Bee's very precise," I lie.

Eight B's head is large enough to swallow my entire torso, but I'm committed to the bit.

The stylist glances at the medical report on her tablet. "There's no mention of a dragon bite."

"He seemed embarrassed. I didn't want it on his permanent record. You know how touchy dragons are about these things."

Allie presses her lips together so tightly they disappear.

The stylist's expression suggests she has never wanted to resign more. She reaches for another jar and begins covering the evidence that Gabriel Vekk had his mouth on my throat last night.

Heat climbs into my face. I don't need a mirror to remember the corridor, or the hard line of his body pinning mine against the wall. I can still taste expensive liquor on his tongue and feel the scrape of his stubble against my chin. My hips remember him too, traitorous things that they are.

Bram's kiss had been different. Softer at first. Desperate beneath it. A goodbye neither of us had been willing to name.

Gabriel's had felt like the beginning of a war.

God, Liz. Who kisses two men within hours of each other? Especially two men I can't trust.

If the Games don't kill me, my love life will.

The stylist pats more paste over the mark. "There. Almost invisible."

Shame she can't do the same for the memory.

Allie waits until the woman crosses the room to select earrings before leaning towards me. "Eight B?"

"Not one word."

"He would've taken your entire head off."

"It was a very restrained bite."

Her glasses slip down her nose as she studies me. "Was it another rider?"

My face flames brighter. "No."

Her eyes widen. "Oh god. Was it Vekk?"

I shake my head. "Are you delusional? The man hates me."

"That doesn't mean he's not hot for you."

I flick her a scowl, hating that she so easily echoes my own thoughts. "He does not."

"Oh please. He had a stiffy at the pool."

I blink. "Allie, please never say that again. My god, woman, what are you? Twelve?"

She settles back into the chair with an amused grin.

The last twenty-four hours have done nothing to make sense of what happened. After finding Bram's note on my pillow and the scale still beneath my mattress, I managed maybe two hours of sleep before the nightmares started. Every time I closed my eyes I saw the Apex dragon falling, the dead rider crushed between two animals, Crimson riders hitting the sand in pieces.

I woke screaming.

By breakfast, the League had covered the dark circles and bruise, and had us trotting out, smiling for the cameras.

Medical assessments followed, then a post-Game debrief, three sponsor calls, and an hour-long strategy review in which Kiera announced that Game Two would take place in thirteen days. Thirteen days to turn luck into skill.

I'm fucked. So royally, absolutely, totally, impossibly fucked.

Somehow surviving the first Game has made this whole journey towards death that much worse.

Should have let them kill me when they tried.

A chime sounds over the speakers. The stylist looks at the clock and swears under her breath. "We're late."

"Good. Maybe they'll begin without us."

She shakes her head. "The Survivors' Procession can't begin without all the survivors."

"That's a pity."

She places a delicate silver chain around my throat, positioning the blue stone pendant over my chest. "There. Shoulders back. Don't touch your hair. Don't drink anything dark enough to stain your teeth. If anyone asks about your injuries, you're recovering well and looking forward to the next Game."

"What if they ask how I feel about the people who died?"

Her hands pause before she continues fluffing my ridiculous sleeves. "Express your sympathies and redirect the conversation towards your gratitude for surviving."

"They have a script for grief?"

Her eyes meet mine in the mirror. "They have a script for everything."

The doors open before I can answer. Nikolai strides in wearing a midnight-blue suit and the expression of a man already anticipating my failure. His eyes sweep over me.

"Acceptable."

"Careful now. Compliments will spoil me."

He ignores that. "Tonight is important. Game One established you as the season's breakout rider. Your survival clip has become the most replayed moment from yesterday's broadcast." He pauses. "Well, the second most played."

"Who beat me?"

"The Crimson rider plunging to their death."

I shake my head. "That'll teach me to ask."

He adjusts one cuff. "Three new sponsors approached Dr. Bauer this morning. Your personal engagement metrics have passed Gabriel Vekk's for the first time this season."

That catches my attention. "People like me more than Vekk?"

"People find you novel. Don't mistake curiosity for affection."

There's the Nikolai I know and tolerate.

He turns to Allie. "Your transport is waiting downstairs. The other members of Azura have already departed."

"Why didn't we go with them?" I ask.

His expression doesn't change. "They were ready on time."

The stylist makes a quiet sound of vindication.

I glance once more at the mirror. The woman staring back looks nothing like me. She looks composed, wealthy, almost untouched. Like she spent yesterday watching the Game from a private box instead of tasting blood, sweat and fear. Instead of fighting for her life and watching others lose theirs.

"Elizabeth?" Allie says.

I look away from the mirror. "Let's get this over with."

The Hall of Sovereigns has been transformed overnight. Yesterday it held sponsor exhibits and broadcast equipment. Tonight, hundreds of candles float beneath the vaulted glass ceiling, their flames reflecting on the glass until it looks like the stars have descended to watch us eat. The corporate banners have been replaced by black silk threaded with the colours of the surviving teams.

One banner is missing. Crimson Dominion. In its place hangs a length of unbroken red fabric, dark enough to pass for blood in the low light.

Long tables fill the hall, arranged around a polished dance floor. Sponsors, officials and corporate representatives mingle beneath the floating lights, champagne in hand, their laughter subdued enough to suggest respect without requiring them to feel it.

At the far end, five chairs sit on a raised platform. Each is empty. A black glass rests before each vacant place, filled to the rim with red wine.

Five riders flew for Crimson Dominion yesterday. The arena kept every one of them.

The families are seated below the platform. Five tables. One for each rider who didn't leave the arena. They've been arranged in a shallow crescent facing the empty chairs, close enough for the cameras to capture them above the mourners' shoulders. Every relative wears a black ribbon pinned over their heart and sits beside a League-appointed family liaison.

The liaisons are easy to identify. They're the ones smiling.

An elderly couple sits at the first table, their posture unnaturally straight. At the second, a man sits between two teenage boys who stare at their untouched glasses of water. One family has brought a little girl in a black dress. She swings her legs beneath her chair, too young to understand why everyone keeps telling her to sit still.

At the last table, a woman sits alone. Mrs Polick, according to the place card.

Oelia's mother.

Her eyes are swollen, her fingers knotted around a handkerchief. Unlike the other families, she hasn't managed to smother her grief.

My stomach turns.

"They make the families attend?" I whisper.

Allie nods. "Attendance is strongly encouraged."

"Meaning?"

"The compensation package includes a public-mourning clause."

I stare at her. "They have to come if they want to be paid?"

"They have to cooperate with official memorial events."

I look at the families again. Nobody seems particularly upset to be there except Mrs Polick.

"They don't look like they're grieving," I murmur. "They look like they're at an unwanted dinner party."

"Most of them are." Allie keeps her voice low. "Quadrant families plan for three children. The heir, the spare, and the I-don't-care. The first inherits. The second insures. The third gets handed to the League. Everyone prays a dragon picks them so the family name gets glory without risking continuance of the bloodline."

"And if no dragon picks them?"

"Then they've wasted twenty years of school fees on a child they never bothered loving."

Ty's voice drifts back to me from last night, flat as ever. My sister is the heir, my brother is the spare, I'm the disposable, they-don't-care.

I'd thought he was being bitter.

"I'm surprised they don't outsource the riding to Rookery kids. God knows they don't give a shit if we live or die."

"But then you'd have power the elite want to control. They'd never allow it."

Yet here I sit, in crystals and silk. No wonder they need me dead on schedule.

"And her?" I nod towards Mrs Polick.

Allie's voice drops further. "She only had one daughter."

I look at Mrs Polick's hands, knotted around the handkerchief, shaking as she brings it to her red-rimmed eyes.

Oelia wasn't an I-don't-care.

A camera drone sweeps close. Allie smiles automatically.

I don't.

"Welcome, Miss Reeves."

I know the voice before I turn. Administrator Kovac stands beneath Azura's banner in a black gown that fits her with military precision. Her dark hair is pinned away from her face, and the same black polish covers her fingernails. She looks exactly like she did when she offered me a choice between execution and the Games. Immaculate. Controlled. Entirely unsurprised to find me alive.

"Administrator." I force a smile. "I was beginning to think you only appeared when someone needed threatening."

Her gaze shifts briefly to the empty chairs. "The League honours every rider who sacrifices themselves for political stability."

"By making their families sit beneath their empty chairs?"

"Their presence reminds us of the cost."

"Ah. I imagine they remember without the theatrics."

Kovac's eyes sharpen, though her expression stays pleasant for the cameras circling us. "You performed well yesterday."

"I crashed."

"You survived."

"An inspiringly low standard."

She takes a glass from a passing tray but doesn't drink. "Eight B's response to you has generated considerable interest. The compliance division will perform additional testing before Game Two."

My spine tightens. "What kind of testing?"

"Non-invasive assessments. Blood, tissue, neural-response mapping."

"He doesn't like strangers."

"Few creatures do."

"He has fifty-foot wings and breathes fire. His dislike carries more weight than most."

Kovac's lips curve. "Your concern for him is admirable, Miss Reeves. But do try to remember that Eight B remains League property."

I bite down on my answer.

"Good." She shifts her attention to Allie. "Miss Cartwright."

Allie straightens. "Ma'am."

"You're adapting well to your new role."

Allie blinks slowly. "I'm trying."

"Try harder. Azura cannot afford a second-rate tactician."

Allie pales. Kovac walks away before either of us can respond, gliding towards the officials gathered near the platform.

"I hate her," I mutter.

"I've never met her before."

"You're not missing much."

Allie frowns. "Why does the Head of League Operations know who I am? And for that matter, when did she become the Head? It hasn't been announced. I'd know"

I shrug. "Does it matter? All I know is she's a snake and we'd better watch our backs when she's around."

The orchestra begins a low instrumental piece. Guests are directed towards their tables, and Nikolai appears long enough to steer us into the Survivors' Procession. We're announced by team. Apex enters first, then Meridian, Shinhu and Vekk.

Gabriel leads his riders into the hall wearing black formalwear with the Vekk crest picked out in gold across his collar. The red mark I left on his cheek is gone, but I know exactly where it should be. His eyes find me as he passes. They drop briefly to my throat, and a smirk touches his lips.

The bastard knows they covered his mark. I resist the urge to touch it.

His father isn't with him tonight. O'Maury is. The bodyguard follows two steps behind, dark hair slicked back from his scarred face, dressed in a black suit without insignia. Nothing about him says servant.

His gaze finds Allie. She stops walking—only for half a beat, but I feel her tension through the hand she has tucked around my arm.

O'Maury smiles. Allie looks away.

Before I can ask whether she's all right, Azura is announced.

The applause hits us. People rise from their seats as we enter, straining to see.

Twenty-four hours ago, half this room had money on me dying first.

This feels like ownership.

I lift a hand because Nikolai is glaring from the edge of the room. The applause swells. By the time we reach our table, my face aches from fake smiling.

"You're famous," Jax whispers.

"I'd rather have money."

"You have sponsors."

"Azura has sponsors. I have bruises."

"Some people pay extra for those."

Kiera elbows him before I can.

We take our seats at a table beside Vekk's. Ty is on my left, Allie on my right. Kiera sits opposite me with Chloe and Jax beside her. Dr. Bauer occupies the head of the table, surrounded by representatives from our largest sponsors.

The first course appears before anyone has touched the cutlery. I stare at six forks and choose the one farthest from my plate.

Allie silently moves my hand to the other side.

"Thanks."

"You were about to eat fish with a dessert fork."

"Way I see it, they both stab things."

A server steps between us to pour wine. Crisp shirt. Black waistcoat. A familiar scar across one knuckle.

I look up.

Bram's hair has been combed away from his face, though several blond strands have already escaped to fall across his forehead. In service uniform, he looks like the kind of man rich women ruin their marriages for. His gaze meets mine, and for a moment neither of us speaks. He looks me over slowly—face, shoulders, arms—like he's confirming the broadcast didn't hide something important.

Then his eyes settle on my throat.

The cosmetic coverage is good, but apparently not good enough. His jaw tightens.

"Wine, miss?"

I hand him my glass. "Are you working?"

"I'm deeply wounded you assumed this is my leisure activity." He fills my glass without spilling a drop.

"Where did Gris find the uniform?"

"On a dead man."

Allie chokes on her water.

Bram smiles at her. "I joke."

"I can never tell with you."

"Part of my charm."

Movement stops him from saying more. Daisy enters on Preston's arm.

She wears green tonight, a deep shimmering colour that glides over her skin like water. Her hair is piled in curls, diamonds flashing at her ears and throat. Preston beams as the cameras turn towards them.

Daisy's smile is flawless until she sees me. Then she notices Bram standing beside my chair, and something passes between them.

Bram turns away first, moving to fill Ty's glass. Preston steers Daisy towards the Vekk table.

Of course he does. Men like Preston collect powerful acquaintances the way some collect bottle caps.

"Gabriel!" Preston calls. "Magnificent work yesterday. Truly magnificent."

Gabriel rises and accepts Preston's hand. Daisy stands beside them, smiling pleasantly until Gabriel's attention settles on her.

"And you are?"

"Daisy Okonkwo." Her voice is soft and warm, every syllable designed to make a man believe he has her complete attention.

Preston says, loud enough for me to hear, "Daisy was telling me she knew Miss Reeves before all this. Grew up together, didn't you, poppet?"

"We did."

Bram is pouring wine three chairs away. He doesn't look up, but his shoulders have gone rigid beneath the white shirt.

Wonderful. This should end well.

"Extraordinary." From the corner of my eye, I can see Preston looking over at me, as if poverty has become a charming shared hobby. "You must have some stories."

"None you could afford," Daisy says lightly.

Bram coughs into his fist. Gabriel's mouth twitches. Preston laughs too, assuming everyone is enjoying the joke with him rather than at his expense.

Administrator Kovac takes the stage before the conversation can continue.

The room darkens.

The first portrait appears above the empty chairs.

OELIA POLICK — CRIMSON DOMINION

Oelia smiles down at us from her official rider photograph. She can't be more than twenty. Her hair is swept over one shoulder, her chin raised, her Crimson uniform pristine.

Yesterday, I watched her body hit the sand.

Tonight, the League gives us childhood photographs.

Oelia missing her front teeth. Oelia in an Academy uniform. Oelia at her first dragon trial, dwarfed by a helmet too large for her head. The images give way to training footage and polished interviews in which she talks about duty, sacrifice and making her mother proud.

Mrs Polick's first sob cuts through the music.

It's small. Almost swallowed.

Every head at her table turns.

The League liaison beside her leans close and whispers something. Mrs Polick shakes her head, pressing the handkerchief over her mouth.

The memorial continues.

Oelia launches from the Crimson starting zone. Her dragon cuts through the air. She laughs during a training exercise. She raises one fist after completing a combat run.

Then comes yesterday's footage.

The League cuts away a second before she hits the ground, offering mercy now that they've already broadcast her death in slow motion to millions.

Mrs Polick makes a sound like an animal in pain. It rises from her chest as a long, broken wail.

The liaison touches her arm, looking embarrassed.

"Mrs Polick," she murmurs, loud enough to carry in the sudden quiet. "Perhaps we should continue this in another room."

Oelia's mother stares at her. "What?"

"The League understands this is a difficult evening. If you need a moment to compose yourself—"

"Compose myself?"

The camera drones turn towards her.

The liaison's expression tightens. "We ask that expressions of grief be kept to the designated private areas."

For one suspended moment, Mrs Polick doesn't move.

Then she screams.

It rips through the hall, raw enough to make every polished guest recoil. "My daughter is dead!"

The liaison rises. "Mrs Polick—"

"She's dead!"

Mrs Polick surges to her feet so violently her chair crashes backwards. She tears the black ribbon from her chest and hurls it at the liaison.

"You put cameras on her while she fell!"

The memorial freezes with Oelia smiling above her.

"Please lower your voice," the liaison says.

"You showed my daughter dying." Mrs Polick strikes the table, overturning her wine. Red floods the white cloth and drips over the edge. "You slowed it down. You replayed it. You let those fucking animals discuss whether she was dead before she hit the ground."

Security begins moving along the walls. The liaison reaches for her.

Mrs Polick slaps her hand away. "Don't touch me!"

"Ma'am, you need to come with us."

"No!" Her scream fractures into a sob before climbing again. "Where were you when she was falling? Where were any of you?"

She turns on the room.

Sponsors avert their eyes. Officials remain seated. A man at the Meridian table lifts his glass to drink as if the interruption is little more than an inconvenience.

Mrs Polick sees him. "Fuck you!" The words detonate through the hall. "Fuck all of you!"

A security officer reaches her table.

She snatches up a black glass and hurls it. It misses him and shatters across the floor, spraying wine and shards of dark crystal over polished shoes.

"You sat here and ate while they showed my baby's body!" she screams. "You bet on her death. You cheered when she hit the ground. You fucking murdered her!"

Two officers seize her arms.

Mrs Polick fights them. She kicks, claws and twists, dragging one officer sideways into the table.

Plates crash to the floor.

"Let me go! Get your hands off me!"

I push back my chair.

Kiera's hand closes around my wrist beneath the table.

"Don't," she says quietly.

"They're dragging her out!"

"I know."

"She needs help!"

"If you cross that room, we'll be penalised." Her gaze meets mine. "I'm sorry, Liz, but we can't afford for you to be noble. We need all the advantage we can get."

Mrs Polick screams again.

Her grief is stripped down to mere sound, her entire body fighting the men hauling her away from the memorial to her child.

I wrench against Kiera's grip.

She holds on.

"Please, Liz. Please."

"I hate this," I whisper.

"So do I."

The officers drag Mrs Polick past the other bereaved families.

The little girl at the third table begins to cry. Her grandmother pulls her close and covers her ears.

One of Oelia's mother's shoes comes off. It remains beneath the table, overturned on the polished floor.

"Rot in hell!" Mrs Polick screams at the stage. "Every one of you! Rot in fucking hell!"

The doors close behind her. Her screams continue from the corridor. They fade slowly.

No one moves. The frozen image of Oelia still smiles above the empty chairs.

Kovac stands at the centre of the stage, waiting.

Not shaken. Not angry.

Patient.

When silence finally returns, she inclines her head towards the remaining families.

"The League recognises that loss affects us all differently."

Mrs Polick's overturned chair is removed.

Her spilled wine is covered with a clean cloth.

The liaison sits back down at the empty table as though Oelia's mother was never there.

"Let us continue," Kovac says.

The memorial resumes.

The four other riders smile above us in turn. Their families remain silent. One father lowers his head. The little girl buries her face against her grandmother's chest. A teenage boy stares at the floor with his jaw clenched so tightly I can see the muscle jumping from across the room.

Nobody else cries.

Some of them have seen what happens when grief becomes inconvenient. Some of them are mourning an investment, not a child.

When the final portrait fades, Kovac raises her glass.

"To those who entered the arena. To those who did not return."

Everyone drinks.

Dinner resumes as the main course is served.

Conversation rises around us with astonishing ease. Sponsors discuss market projections over the remains of Crimson Dominion. Politicians laugh into their wine. A man at the neighbouring table argues that yesterday's deaths prove Game One lacked sufficient weaponry. On the platform, the five black glasses sit full and untouched. Nobody clears them. Nobody looks at them, either.

Survival doesn't make any of us human to the elites in this room. It just makes us entertainment.

After dessert, the tables are cleared from the edge of the dance floor, and Director Hallam steps onto the stage.

"Tradition dictates that the reigning champion open the Survivors' Dance with the rider who most captured the public imagination during the previous Game."

My fork stops halfway to my plate.

Jax leans across the table. "That's you."

My jaw tightens. "No, it's not."

He grins. "Want me to break your ankle?"

I glance over at the Vekk table, seeing that Gabriel is already standing. "Fuck. Maybe. Yes. Do it."

Applause follows Gabriel across the floor. He stops before me and offers his hand, every inch the polished Vekk heir.

"Dance with me, Grunt."

"No."

His smile doesn't shift. "There are four cameras behind you."

"Then I hope they capture my refusal from a flattering angle."

Dr. Bauer clears her throat. I don't need to look at her to feel the threat.

Gabriel bends closer. "If it helps, I'm equally unhappy about this."

"Your face says you're loving this."

"My face has better manners than yours." He wiggles his fingers.

I place my hand in his before Bauer can have me executed with a dessert spoon.

The crowd applauds as Gabriel leads me onto the dance floor. His hand settles against my waist, warm through the thin fabric. Mine rests on his shoulder, and his fingers close around the other. The orchestra begins.

"I don't know how to do this," I hiss.

"I gathered that." He winces when I step on his foot. "You're leading with the wrong leg."

"You're lucky I'm not leading with my fucking knee," I mutter, struggling to follow him.

He guides me into the first turn, and I stumble, catching myself against his chest. His arm tightens, holding me steady.

"Relax," he murmurs, pressing his hand against my lower back. "You're trying to crush my hand."

"I'm imagining it's your throat."

"Whatever gets you through."

The room rotates around us in a haze of candles and watching faces. Gabriel moves with the same control he shows on Helix, anticipating every mistake I make and quietly correcting our path so nobody else notices.

I hate that he's good at this. I especially hate that my body remembers exactly how he felt pressed against it.

His gaze lowers to my throat. "They covered it."

I dig my nails into his shoulder. "Disappointed?"

"I could fix that."

Heat drops through me, low and stupid.

"You come near my neck again and I'll remove your teeth."

His mouth curves. "You didn't object at the time."

"I slapped you."

"After."

"I was drunk!"

"So was I."

"Then it didn't count."

"Is that what you told Wilder?"

My step falters. Gabriel catches me before I tread on my hem.

"I don't know what you mean."

He glances over my head towards the far wall. "He watches you like he's waiting for someone to try taking you from him."

"Bram doesn't own me."

"Didn't say he did."

I glance towards the edge of the floor. Bram stands beside a pillar with a tray balanced on one hand. He isn't smiling now. Our eyes meet across the ballroom.

Gabriel turns, placing himself between us. "Stop looking at him."

"Jealous, Vekk?"

"No." The answer comes too fast.

"Then move your oversized ego. It's blocking my view."

His hand spreads over my waist as he guides me backwards. "Are you sleeping with him?"

I smile sweetly. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

His jaw tightens.

Before I can enjoy the small victory, movement behind him catches my attention. O'Maury has approached Allie.

She sits alone at our table, watching us with the expression of someone witnessing a public execution. O'Maury stops beside her chair and offers his hand.

Allie shakes her head.

His smile widens. He bends and says something near her ear, and the colour leaves her face.

She puts her hand in his.

"What's your goon doing?" I ask.

Gabriel follows my gaze as O'Maury leads Allie onto the floor. "Dancing."

"She doesn't want to."

"Neither did you."

"You didn't threaten me!"

O'Maury positions Allie in his arms. His hand settles at the centre of her back and pulls her closer than necessary. She goes rigid.

I start to turn. Gabriel's grip tightens.

I glare at him. "Let go!"

"You'll cause a scene."

"He's frightening her."

He shrugs. "Rhett frightens everyone."

"That doesn't make it acceptable."

"We're in public. It's highly unlikely he intends her any particular harm."

I try to look past him. Gabriel turns us smoothly, keeping me moving. Across the floor, O'Maury says something that makes Allie stumble. His hand closes around hers, holding her upright. To the watching cameras, it probably looks intimate.

I know an interrogation when I see one.

"Get him away from her," I hiss, digging my fingernails into Gabriel's neck.

He winces but keeps dancing. "Cartwright is capable of speaking for herself."

"She said no!"

"So did you. And yet here we both are."

I glare up at him. "You're an asshole."

"I've been called worse by better."

O'Maury spins Allie beneath his arm. As she returns, I catch a fragment of his question.

"—tell Reeves?"

Allie shakes her head. Gabriel doesn't react.

He didn't hear.

I search Allie's face when the dance brings us closer.

"I heard nothing," i hear her say.

O'Maury's smile stays pleasant. "You're a terrible liar, little dove."

The next turn carries us away.

Gabriel looks down at me, his expression blank.

"What?"

He shrugs. "I'm just trying to figure out how you survived."

"Maybe I'm a better rider than you think."

"You're not. And if you're not careful, next Game you'll end up six feet under just like Oelia."

The alliance sits like a stone behind my ribs.

Gabriel's team has no idea what's coming. In thirteen days, three corporations will descend on them at once. Kiera refused to join the attack, but she also made it clear we won't interfere. We'll collect our orbs while Vekk bleeds.

I study Gabriel's face.

He killed five people yesterday. He's threatened Kai. Humiliated me. Treated me like an irritation since the moment I fell onto Helix. He wouldn't warn me if our positions were reversed.

Would he?

The memory of Bloomfield's assault haunts me.

Let her go.

Gabriel could have walked away that night. He didn't.

Fuck. I hate owing people.

The orchestra begins the final progression. Our bodies draw closer as the remaining dancers circle around us.

This is my opportunity. I could tell him everything. Meridian. Apex. Shinhu. The coordinated attack. The plan to cut through his support riders and leave him isolated.

My loyalty belongs to Azura. My silence may get people killed.

"Watch your back in the next Game, Vekk."

His gaze drops to mine. "What?"

I force myself not to look away. "You heard me."

His thumb moves once against my waist. "Planning to put a knife in it, Grunt?"

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

"Gabriel." It's the first time I've used his name. His expression shifts. Not enough to call softness, but the amusement falls away.

"I mean it. Watch your back."

His eyes search mine. For one breath, I think he understands.

Then his mouth curves. "You're worried about me."

"Don't flatter yourself."

"Too late."

"You know what? I hope Helix eats you and shits you out like the turd you are."

"There she is." He strokes his thumb over my inner wrist. "How I've missed the sweet words you whisper."

"Fucking bastard."

The music ends. Applause rises around us. Gabriel releases my hand but keeps the other at my waist for one beat longer than necessary.

"Have no fear, Grunt. I always watch my back," he murmurs. He steps away.

He didn't understand.

I can't tell if the sick feeling in my gut is relief or disappointment.

Fuck it. I did my duty.

I turn, searching the dance floor for Allie.

I've got more important things to do than save a serial killer.

Allie doesn’t return to our table.

Her chair's empty, her tablet abandoned beside an untouched dessert. I search the crowd and see O'Maury strolling back to the Vekk table with the satisfied expression of a man who's concluded his business.

Fuck. 

Whatever he said to her, it must have been bad if she scampered away like a rat hiding from a cat. I scan the hall and catch a flash of Azura blue slipping through the terrace doors.

I follow, weaving between dancers and dodging a waiter with a tray of champagne. Nikolai calls my name somewhere behind me. I ignore him, pretending the orchestra swallowed it.

The night air hits my face as I step outside. The Academy gardens stretch below, lit paths threading between hedges and reflecting pools. Beyond the walls, the Northern Quadrant glows against the dark, its towers looking down on the rest of the city.

It’d be beautiful if it wasn’t a view bought with blood. I find Allie standing at the rail, her head bowed. She grips the stone railing with both hands, her knuckles white.

"What did he want?" I ask. 

She doesn't answer.

"Allie?"

"To know what I heard at the pool." Her voice shakes despite her attempt to steady it. "Whether I told you, Kiera or anyone else."

"What did you say?"

"That I heard nothing."

"Did he believe you?"

She looks back over her shoulder to the glass doors. I follow her gaze to see O'Maury standing inside with one hand in his pocket, speaking to Gabriel. He glances towards the terrace and lifts his glass to her, his smile reminding me of Gris.

Allie shivers and turns away. "Not even slightly."

"Did he threaten you?"

"Sort of. Not exactly." Her fingers tighten around the railing. "He reminded me that my uncle's position won't protect me from Vekk. Then he asked whether I understood what happens to people who interfere with Gabriel."

What?

I drop my voice, crowding closer. "Did you hear more than you told me?"

She hesitates. "You had enough to worry about." She finally looks at me, eyes over-bright behind her glasses. "There's more."

“Seriously?"

Her voice wobbles between fury and fear. "He… knows something about me. Something I’ve tried to hide. He offered to discuss the terms in his quarters. He made it very clear what currency he had in mind."

My grip on the railing could crack stone. "That fucking—"

"Liz, I don’t think he’s completely bad." She pushes her glasses up, flustered. "The threat was delivered along with the offer, but he didn’t press further. The rest of the dance he asked what I drink. What I read." She shakes her head. "Why would a man like that care what I read?"

My jaw tightens. "Because he's manipulating you."

"That's what I'm afraid of." 

I lay a hand on her back. "He's not touching you. Ever. If he comes near you again, I'll feed him to Bee myself."

She splutters. "Please don't joke." Allie takes off her glasses, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I don’t know if I can take it.” 

"Who's joking?"

She doesn't answer. She glances back again and O'Maury sees it, winking at her before moving out of view. When I look back, her cheeks are pink, and I know it isn't from champagne.

I know that particular shade of stupid. I've been wearing it since last night.

Oh shit!

"Allie. Do you like him?"

"No!" It comes out too loud. She checks the doors and drops her voice to a furious whisper. "He's terrifying! He's Vekk's attack dog. He cornered me at a pool, and tonight he suggested I sell him my silence with my body. He is the last man in this Academy any sane woman would—" She stops. Breathes. "He's very tall."

"Tall,” I repeat.

“And well, it’s just…” She flushes, looking away. “No one’s ever… You know. I’m not… I’m just…” She stutters to a stop.

“Holy shit, you do like him!” 

"Shut up!"

"Allie!"

"I'm scared of him," she admits. "I just wish that was the only thing I felt. He’s attractive, and I don’t know. I’ve never been the subject of anyone’s interest before. I’m the wallpaper, you know?” She blows out a breath. “Being scared would be simpler than whatever this is."

Simple has never once been on the menu for girls like us.

"Yeah," I say. "I know."

Allie pulls in a shaky breath and straightens, visibly packing it all away. "God, can we talk about anything else? Actually." She turns on me, slapping my arm. "You lied to me this morning!"

"Ow! About what?"

"Your dragon did not bite your neck, you liar!"

Heat crawls up my ears. "He might have."

"Elizabeth! I might be petrified of the beasts, but even I know there’s no possible way that dragon could make a bite that small."

I roll my eyes. "Fine. Gabriel did it. Are you happy?"

"Damn," she whispers, her eyes widening behind her glasses. “That's… did you like it?” 

I shrug. “I didn’t not like it.”

She shakes her head, leaning against the rail. “What a pair we make.” 

I bump her hip with mine, leaning beside her. “Yeah. Just two girls who have seriously fucked up priorities when it comes to men.”

She raises her hand, pretending to wave a flag. “Red flags ahoy.” 

We fall into silence, watching the dance of people on the other side of the glass. The music reaches us through the doors. I watch these rich pricks smile and chat and dance, circling each other like sharks around prey. 

They may have more credits than god, and be cleaner, but these people aren’t any different than those in the Rookery. There’s no heroes here. No goodness. Nothing but greed and survival at any cost. 

"Did you warn him?" Allie asks quietly, breaking the silence. 

I glance over at her. "About what?"

"The alliance."

I stiffen, hesitating. "I told him to watch his back."

She stares at me.

"What?"

"That isn't a warning. You threaten him every time you speak."

I turn towards the gardens. "I tried."

"No. You did enough to assuage your guilt. That’s not the same thing."

“Oof. Don’t hold back, Allie.” 

Allie's anger fades as quickly as it came. Her shoulders slump. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. You're right."

The terrace doors open, forcing us both to shut up. Of all the people in the world, I don’t expect it to be Daisy who slips outside. She closes the doors behind her, her smile warm when she looks at us.

"I hope I'm not interrupting?"

"Not at all." 

She pulls me into a tight hug. "You did it," she whispers. "You magnificent, terrifying bitch."

"I mostly screamed and crashed."

"You did both beautifully."

She releases me and turns to Allie. "You must be the Allie. I’ve heard all about you."

Allie pushes her glasses up her nose. "Um, yes?"

I grin. "Allie, this is Daisy. She and I knew each other back in the Rookery."

Daisy kisses Allie's cheeks. "Anyone Liz trusts is worth knowing."

The terrace door opens again. Bram steps outside carrying three glasses of champagne and a folded white cloth over one arm. "Thought the survivors might be thirsty."

Daisy arches an eyebrow. "What about me?"

Bram hands her a glass. "You most of all."

Her expression softens and she takes the wine. Allie accepts hers, leaving Bram with none.

"What about you?" I ask, tipping the crystal towards him. 

He scoffs. "I'm working."

"You've never allowed employment to interfere with drinking."

"I’m on a path of personal improvement."

Daisy snorts.

Bram sets the tray on the railing and glances back through the doors.

"Drones don't do the terrace while the dance floor's lit," he says quietly, catching my curious look. "The cameras like rich people dancing." He looks at Daisy. "Did you manage to speak to him?"

She rolls her eyes. "I listened while Preston spoke at him. Men reveal extraordinary things when they assume the woman beside them is furniture."

"And?"

"He’s real, at least."

Bram's posture changes.

"Who?" I ask, glancing between them. 

They both look at me.

"The broker," Daisy says. "The one who may be able to move your…” She glances at Allie. “Product."

My champagne sours on my tongue. "You know about that?"

"I told Tova," Bram says by way of explanation. 

"And Tova told me," Daisy says. She winks. "We're excellent at secrets."

"So I'm learning,” I drawl dryly. 

“What am I missing?” Allie asks, her gaze bouncing between us.

I hesitate, unsure how much to reveal. “It’s something not quite legal.” 

She freezes, her eyes narrowing. “How ‘not legal'?”

Bram lowers his voice. "We found a broker who finds buyers looking to collect restricted biological material. Dragon teeth. Tissue. Genetic samples."

“The dragons,” she breathes. “You want to sell their bio waste.” 

I nod, wincing. “They need the credits, and we’re not using the discarded scales.”

She blows out a breath. “Wow. I wasn’t expecting this.” 

Daisy’s smile is small. "Rich people rarely are."

“Can you keep the secret?” I ask Allie. 

She nods slowly. “Honestly? I’ve never agreed with how little regard has been given to the Rookery. I mean, they’re not even counted in the census, let alone—”

I interrupt her. “Sorry, Al, time is limited. We can discuss your rich girl privilege later.”

She shrugs. “That’s fine.” 

"Do you trust the broker?" I ask Daisy. 

"No," Daisy and Bram say together.

Daisy continues. "But I trust the client who gave me the name. He's greedy, vain and terribly selfish in bed. Men with that particular combination tend to only work with those they can trust."

"We’ll background-check the broker before anyone makes contact," Bram says. "If this is legit, we’ll arrange a meet."

"We?" I ask. 

His eyes settle on mine. "Scale's yours."

"I gave it to you."

"You tried to leave it to me because you thought you were going to die."

"Doesn't make it less yours."

"Does to me."

The ballroom glitters beyond him. Gabriel stands near the orchestra, listening to Kovac while O'Maury watches the terrace.

"Why didn't you take it?" I ask.

Bram's expression loses its humour. "I’m not collecting a dead woman's bequest."

My throat tightens. 

Daisy looks away, giving us privacy without going anywhere. Allie becomes intensely interested in her champagne.

Bram steps closer. "You want me to take it now, I will. But you're going to be there when I do, and you're going to understand what happens next. If we move that scale, Gris can't know. The League can't know. No one in this building can know."

"How comforting," I mutter. 

He places a finger under my chin, tilting my face up. "Fifty thousand credits is enough to buy interest from dangerous people, Saint."

I force a shrug. "I live in a building full of dangerous people."

"Exactly."

His gaze moves briefly towards Gabriel. "Daisy will find out tonight whether her broker is the real deal."

Daisy raises her glass. "And whether they have buyers willing to pay for it."

"Tomorrow night," Bram says. "Your room. We collect the scale together."

"And then?"

"After that, we work out how to sell it without ending up in Gris's ledger as a cautionary tale."

"What about Tova?"

"She’s in the Rookery dealing with Gris. Someone’s gotta make sure he doesn’t catch wind of this before it’s a done deal."

"And you?"

His hand slides up to cup my jaw. His lips quirk into a cocky smile. "I do the dangerous parts."

A body crashes into the door behind us, followed by laughter. It breaks the spell around the four of us. 

Bram steps back, dropping his hand, leaving the heat of his touch behind. 

Daisy sets down her half-drunk glass. "I should find Preston before he mistakes my absence for independence." She kisses my cheek, and brushes her fingers against Bram's wrist. “Allie, can I escort you back in?”

Allie nods, throwing me a look over her shoulder as they leave.

Bram picks up his tray. 

I hesitate, wondering if I have a right to ask what I’m about to. "Bram?” 

He turns. "Yeah?” His eyes narrow. “Why have you got your scheming face on?"

"I need you to find something for me."

His eyebrows lift. "Thought I was already stealing a dragon scale."

"I need a holodisk reader."

The humour slips from his face. "What for?"

"My Dad gave me a disk before I came here. I don’t know what’s on it."

Bram glances at the door behind me. "Does anyone know you have it?"

"No."

"And this place doesn’t have a reader?"

"It’s old tech. And I don’t think Dad wants me to let people know I have it."

"Fuck,” he curses softly. "How old?"

"The casing is stamped with the year." I tell him the date. "Dad said I needed a reader from the same period or one with backwards compatibility. Anything newer will either reject the disk or try to convert it through a League-connected system."

"And you don't want it touching their network.” He nods slowly. 

"Dad was very clear about that."

"What's on it?"

"I don't know. He said it contained everything he didn't have time to teach me."

Bram studies my face. Behind us, music pours through the terrace doors as the orchestra begins another dance. Somewhere in that ballroom, wealthy people are drinking to our survival while planning how to profit from our deaths.

"Do you think you can get me one?" I ask.

"A working holodisk reader from the correct year that isn't registered, networked or being watched?"

I wince. "When you say it like that, it sounds difficult."

"It sounds expensive."

I hesitate. "If I tell you this, you can’t let anyone else know.” I cast a glance at the door. “Promise me, Bram.”

His eyes narrow. “Go on.”

I hesitate, dropping my voice, stepping close. “Bet on Vekk Industries losing riders in the next Game."

Bram stares at me. For once, there's no immediate joke. His head tilts as he searches my face, confusion giving way to suspicion.

"Vekk are odds-on favourites to win."

"Trust me. You'll more than earn your money back."

He frowns. "What do you know, Liz? And why do I get the feeling this is dangerous?"

If Vekk is going to bleed, someone I care about might as well profit from it.

"Just place the bet before the odds shift."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one you're getting tonight."

His gaze stays locked on mine. "How many riders?"

"I don't know." I cross my arms over my chest. “You gonna place the bet or not?” 

"I want to know whether placing that wager gets my throat cut."

"That's a risk every time you enter Gris's den. You and I both know that."

"Fair." He considers me for another long moment. “Fine. I’ll see what I can do.” 

He reaches past me and pushes the ballroom door open. Music and conversation flood the terrace. He steps through, adjusting his cuffs as the charming server slips into place over the thief.

"We deal with the scale first," he mutters, holding the door for me.

"And the reader?" I press. 

He grins. "I said I'll see what I can do, Saint. Don’t push your luck.” 

Then he's gone, swallowed by black suits and glittering gowns.

I stand there for a count of twenty before I follow, slipping back into the noise and candlelight like I never left.

I make it four steps before I see him.

Gabriel. 

He’s beside the next set of terrace doors, glass in hand.

He saw me return with Bram. He watches me realise it, and he smiles—slow, pleased, patient—then raises his glass in a small, private toast.

Fuckity fuck fuck! 

The ballroom doors bang open.

The music stumbles. Heads turn. A stable hand stands in the entrance, grey uniform streaked with sand and blood, chest heaving like he's run a marathon. His eyes sweep the glittering crowd, wild, searching.

They find me.

"Reeves!" His voice cracks across the hall. "Come quick! It's Eight B!"

I hike my skirts to my thighs and run.

The stable hand leads the way through the ballroom, scattering guests in his wake. I follow, seeing the bloody smears from his boots on the marble flooring. Crystals bite into my palms where I’ve gathered several thousand credits’ worth of silver-blue fabric.

Bee, what have you done? 

Nikolai shouts my name. I ignore him, dodging a sponsor too slow to move and almost taking a tray of champagne with me. Glasses topple behind me, followed by a shriek of outrage that’s quickly swallowed by the music and noise.

The stable hand pushes through the main doors and I chase him into the corridor. My heels hammer against the polished floor, each step jarring my bandaged ribs. The dress tangles around my legs despite my best efforts to hold it clear, layers of sheer fabric wrapping around my calves.

One heel catches as I reach the stairs.

My ankle rolls, sending me sideways into the railing. Pain tears through my ribs, sharp enough to steal my breath.

“Fuck!” 

I kick off both shoes and keep moving. By the time I reach the lower corridor, footsteps thunder behind me. I glance back, seeing riders pouring from the Survivors’ Dinner in a wave of black suits and glittering gowns, drawn by the stable hand’s blood and the promise of a fresh disaster.

Gabriel leads them. 

I ignore him, hurrying after the hand who shoves through the rear doors and breaks into a flat-out sprint. 

Cold air slams into me as I follow, hurrying toward the dragon complex. I’ve made the walk every day since arriving at the Academy, but tonight the distance stretches impossibly far beneath the lamplights.

A roar tears through the dark. The sound rolls over the Academy grounds, deep enough to vibrate inside my chest.

Every dragon in the complex answers.

Eight B roars again.

Louder.

Furious.

Goddamn it! 

I hike up another handful of my skirt and run harder.

The grass is wet beneath my bare feet. Stones and clipped stems cut into my soles, but the pain barely registers beside the burning in my lungs. My ribs feel as though they’re being pulled apart from the inside, and my injured arm throbs beneath its sheer sleeve. 

Fire bursts from the ventilation stacks above the stable complex. The building doesn’t catch. It was built to contain creatures capable of melting steel, with fire-retardant panels and an automated suppression system powerful enough to drown an ordinary building.

That doesn’t stop Eight B from trying.

Another blast lights the roof from below. White suppressant erupts through the vents, turning the air above the stable cloudy.

“Bee!” I scream, gasping for breath. “I’m coming!” 

An alarm wails, a relentless, jagged, ear-piercing screech that drills straight into my eardrums. Red emergency lights flash over the entrances. 

As I draw closer, I can hear the slamming of bodies against reinforced walls, the shriek of claws scraping across steel.

I round the final corner and skid to a stop at the stable entrance. Duncan staggers backwards through the stable doors, dragging an unconscious man.

Blood. It’s all I see. Black-red, tacky, flowing, it covers Duncan’s hands, his chest, the front of his uniform. It pours from the unconscious man’s shoulder, soaking what remains of his white dinner shirt. His arm hangs at an impossible angle, ripped almost entirely from its socket. Strips of flesh stretch and tear beneath its weight as Duncan lowers him onto the concrete.

Someone vomits behind me.

Stable hands swarm the injured man, forcing him flat while one presses the flesh above his ruined shoulder. He wakes with a scream, his shoes striking the concrete as he thrashes, smearing blood beneath their polished soles.

Duncan spots me at the edge of the crowd and strides over, his face streaked with sweat, blood, and soot.

“He’s gone fucking feral.” He jabs a finger towards the stable. “Rich fuckers tried to ride him, and he’s ripped them apart. He’ll kill himself and everyone else if we don’t settle him.”

I swallow hard, fighting against the fear clawing in my throat. “How?” 

“I don’t fucking know, Reeves. Get your fucking ass in there before he kills someone else!” 

I plunge into the smoking building. 

The air inside is almost impossible to breathe. Smoke mixes with the white suppressant hanging in the corridor, turning the flashing emergency lights into red smears. The chemical catches at the back of my throat, bitter and caustic. I cough into my elbow, but the first breath only drags it deeper into my lungs.

The main stable block is chaos.

Dragons slam against the reinforced walls of their individual stalls, agitated by the alarms and the scent of blood. Fire rolls across the ceiling farther down the corridor, triggering another burst from the suppression system. Handlers run between the enclosures, opening emergency routes and screaming instructions no one can hear over the alarms and roars.

“Evacuate the block!” Duncan bellows behind me. “Riders, get your dragons to the flight grounds. Move!”

The riders scatter.

Kiera takes control of Azura, sending Ty and Chloe towards their stalls before running for Tempest. Jax passes me with his shirt half untucked and his dinner jacket held over his face.

Other riders push into the block, still dressed for the Survivors’ Dinner. Gowns drag through chemical foam. Polished shoes slide across blood and wet concrete. Someone from Meridian is openly sobbing as she fights with the emergency release on her dragon’s gate.

Nobody looks polished now. 

Eight B roars again.

The sound shakes suppressant from the ceiling.

I gather my skirts and keep moving, following a slick trail of blood towards his stall. A section of metal has been torn from the wall and lies across the corridor. I climb over it, catching the hem of my dress on one jagged edge.

The fabric jerks me backwards.

Pain tears through my ribs as I fight to pull it free. The suppressant has soaked through the delicate outer layers, making the gown heavy. 

Goddamn this fucking thing!

I release the skirt and reach for the fastening at my back. My fingers slide over wet fabric, crystals and bare skin without finding it.

“Hold still.”

Allie appears through the chemical haze. Her glasses are fogged, and she has one hand pressed over her mouth. The bottom of her blue dress is soaked white with suppressant. Her face is white, her eyes wide with terror. Every impact from the surrounding stalls makes her flinch, but she keeps moving my way.

“Allie, no! What are you doing in here?”

She cringes when a dragon slams into the stall closest to her, but keeps walking. “Helping you.”

“You’re petrified of dragons!”

“You think I don’t know that?”

Eight B throws himself agains tthe wall of his enclosure, roaring hot air and fire at the roof. The impact shakes the floor, and more suppressant shoots out of the vents above us, clouding the air.

Allie goes rigid. Her eyes are enormous behind her misted glasses, and her chest rises in short, shallow breaths. Then she continues forward, gently pushing my hands away. 

“Let me.”

Her trembling fingers find the concealed fastening and drag it down my spine. Hot air sears my skin as she peels the gown from my shoulders, careful of the dressing covering my burned arm.

The fabric catches around my hips. 

“Shove it,” I say, wiggling while she pulls. “Rip it if you have to.”

“I’m trying,” she grunts, tugging harder. She plants one foot against the ruined hem and yanks.

The gown finally gives, sliding over my hips and collapsing into a glittering, chemical-soaked heap around my bare feet.

I step out of it wearing nothing but my underwear and the white medical strapping around my ribs.

The suppressant immediately finds every cut and abrasion on my skin, burning fiercely. 

I curse, turning toward Bee’s stall, forcing myself to ignore the pain. 

“Wait!” Allie drops to her knees and searches along the inner seam. Her first attempt slips. On the second, the stitches tear with a sharp ripping sound. Allie pulls free a long strip of fabric and stands. “Turn around.” 

She wraps the fabric over my mouth and nose. Her fingers shake so badly that the first knot comes loose. She curses beneath her breath, coughing against the burning chemical, but determinedly ties it again, tighter this time.

Another dragon screams.

Allie’s hands freeze against the back of my head.

“You need to get out,” I order. “Go, Allie!” 

She doesn’t move.

I spin, giving her a little shove. “Allie! Go!”

“Don’t try to command him.” She grips my shoulders. “Not while he’s like this. He’ll think you’re a threat.” She breaks out in a coughing fit, bending over, her eyes watering. “Watch him. Tail, wings—” she gasps, coughing once more. 

“Fuck, Allie!” I drop beside her, placing a hand on her back. 

A massive shape moves through the suppressant behind her.

Helix fills the corridor.

The female is so large that the span of her folded wings nearly touches both walls. Her purple-chrome scales flash beneath the red emergency lights, and each step sends a tremor through the concrete.

Gabriel walks beside her, one hand pressed to the underside of her jaw as he guides her towards the exit. His dinner jacket is gone, and the sleeves of his white shirt have been shoved to his elbows. Helix’s violet eyes move constantly, searching for whatever has upset the rest of the stable block.

O’Maury follows several paces behind them.

Helix sees me.

She slows, nostrils flaring as her gaze travels over my exposed skin.

Gabriel follows her attention.

His eyes land on the fabric covering my face, then drop to the bandages around my ribs and the bruises marking my stomach and thighs.

His expression hardens.

Eight B thunders out another roar.

Helix’s head snaps towards his stall. Her wings begin to open. Gabriel grabs the ridge beneath her jaw and pulls her attention back to him.

“No.” He presses his forehead briefly against her scales. “Keep moving.”

O’Maury looks away from them, his eyes narrowing on Allie.

He changes direction without a word.

One moment, I’m crouched beside her. The next, his arm circles her waist and she’s lifted clean off the floor.

Allie lets out a startled squeak as he throws her over his shoulder. She tries to push herself upright, but another coughing fit folds her across his back. O’Maury secures one arm around her thighs, turns and carries her towards the exit.

He doesn’t say a fucking word and, for once, I’m grateful for his particular method of dealing with problems.

Gabriel continues guiding Helix through the suppressant. Her enormous tail sweeps past me, close enough that I feel the rush of air across my skin. 

Eight B roars again, and someone begins screaming inside his stall.

Fuck! 

I push myself upright. The damaged inner gate bows towards the corridor, its locking mechanism hanging from exposed wiring. Deep gouges score the reinforced metal, and a broken suppression nozzle swings above the entrance, striking the wall with a dull, rhythmic clang.

Beyond it, something enormous moves through the smoke.

I tighten the fabric over my mouth.

Then I climb through the broken gate.

The heat hits first.

It presses against my exposed skin, trapped inside walls designed not to burn. The strip of fabric over my face filters some of the heat, but every breath still scrapes down my throat and sears my lungs.

The stall looks as though a bomb has detonated inside it.

Eight B has torn the feeding mechanism from the wall. Wires spit sparks into the chemical haze, and half his enrichment toys lie crushed beneath his feet. One of the overhead suppressant nozzles hangs by its cables, swinging back and forth as it sprays foam across the sand.

My bare foot lands in something warm.

I look down.

Blood.

It runs across the floor in dark smears, gathering in the shallow grooves around my toes. A bloody handprint marks the wall beside me, the fingers dragged downward before disappearing into a thick swipe.

I follow it to the first body.

A man in a blue dinner jacket lies crumpled against the base of an enrichment tower. His spine bends in a direction it shouldn’t, his head resting near one shoulder while his body faces the other.

One shoe remains on his foot. The other sits several feet away with something still inside it.

My stomach rolls.

Bee, what did you do?

The second body lies closer to the back of the stall.

Eight B has one foreclaw planted over the guy’s chest. His talons pierce the floor on either side, but the weight alone has crushed the man flat. His face is gone, burned away with most of his hair. What remains of his white shirt smoulders beneath Eight B’s claw.

Eight B lifts his head, scenting the air.

Blood coats his muzzle and runs between his teeth. His wings are spread to their full width, the membranes rigid enough to reveal every vein beneath the grey-blue surface. His tail stretches straight behind him, twitching.

His breathing comes in short, sharp bursts.

Stressed. Aggressive. Feral. 

The gash along his flank has reopened. Blood runs over his scales and drips from his belly, mixing with the blood beneath him.

Behind his left wing, two men huddle against the rear wall.

One wears the remains of a silver dinner jacket. The other has lost most of his shirt and presses both hands over a deep burn covering his side. Their faces are wet with tears, eyes fixed on the dragon standing between them and the only exit.

Eight B’s head snaps towards me.

Fire burns at the seams of his throat.

I stop.

His sea-green eyes lock onto mine, pupils narrowed to thin black slits. There’s no curiosity in them. No recognition. Nothing of the dragon I know.

This is the animal the Academy warned me about. The dragon who killed every rider they tried to force onto his back.

I lower my gaze to his chest, adopting a submissive pose. 

“Hey, Bee.”

He roars.

The sound strikes me at close range, snapping the loose ends of the fabric tied around my face. Heat rolls over my bare skin, carrying the smell of blood, chemicals and cooked flesh. The power of it pushes me back a step, my ears ringing, my hair wet with dragon spit, whips behind me.

He stops, dropping his head to snap at the ground. 

Behind him, one of the men starts crying harder. Eight B’s attention shifts towards the sound.

“Hey.” I take one step sideways. “I’m over here, big guy.”

His tail lashes.

It slams into the wall hard enough to crack one of the heat-resistant panels.

I freeze. The glow in his throat brightens.

“Okay,” I whisper. “You don’t like that.” I lift my hands slowly, showing him my empty palms. “It’s me, Mister Bee. Liz. Your friend. I’m the one who feeds you, remember? The chick who sneaks you some tasty treats when no one’s looking?”

His nostrils flare, but the suppressant coats everything. My scent. His. The dead men. The blood covering the floor.

I take another step.

Eight B lowers his head, his eyes locked on me.

Not in recognition.

In preparation.

My heart strikes hard against my ribs. Every instinct I honed in the Rookery tells me to run. Find an exit. Get behind something larger and less flammable.

But the only exit is behind me, and there’s no escaping a dragon. 

You came in here for him. You have to see this through. 

I force myself to remain still, lowering my voice to the same calm, gentle tone I’ve used with Kai numerous times. “I know you’re scared, Bee.”

A growl vibrates through the stall.

“Yeah, well, me too.”

His wings stay rigid.

I move slowly, placing each foot carefully to avoid the shattered equipment covering the floor. Glass cuts into my heel, and I bite back a gasp. I feel it enter, sharp and cold, followed by a rush of warmth as blood joins everything already coating the sand.

Eight B’s eye tracks the movement.

“I promise, dude, it’s me,” I murmur. “Just with fewer clothes. But then I think you’d have burned me on sight just for wearing that monstrosity. Seriously, those shoulder-pad sleeves were atrocious.”

One wing shifts.

The men behind him see it too.

The one in the silver jacket rises.

“No,” I warn, forcing my voice to stay calm. “Let me get him under control first.” 

The guy ignores me, his eyes fixed on the damaged gate.

Motherfucker! He’s gonna get himself killed. 

Eight B’s attention remains on me.

“Good boy,” I praise. “Such a good boy. Did those dickheads think they could ride you? I bet you were sleeping, huh? Resting after your big battle. Well, I can’t blame you for being grumpy and a little stabby. I know what it’s like to get woken up by rich pricks who don’t know how to respect boundaries.” 

I take a slight step forward, and Eight B snorts, but I see his wings relax. 

“Good boy,” I praise, staying still. “Such a good—” 

The man makes a break for it. 

“No!”

Eight B twists, a roar bursting from his throat. His foreclaw sweeps across the stall, the tip catching the man across his back and shoulder.

Fabric, skin and muscle open together, and he flies sideways, hitting the ground hard. His scream becomes a wet gasp as he curls around himself, blood flooding from four parallel wounds.

Eight B lunges after him.

I run directly into his path, throwing my arms wide.

“BEE! Stop!”

His head dips towards me, jaws opening.

I slam both palms against his muzzle. The scales burn beneath my hands, blistering my palms. Blood makes them slick, and my fingers slide as he jerks against me.

“Look at me!”

He snaps his teeth, snorting sulphur and heat into my face. The fabric covering my mouth tears free. I breathe in suppressant, choking as the strip disappears.

Eight B’s chest flares.

White-orange light fills his throat, sparking. 

“Come on,” I rasp. “You want to kill something else?”

His jaws open wider, smoke billowing out. 

“Start with me.”