A sudden shock of sound and light stole everyone’s attention, including Feeyan’s. Gray rushed in and grabbed Dillon, who touched her throat and gasped as her mute state ceased. But everyone else stood frozen.
Staring at what had just landed.
A battered and bruised Synjon Wise stalked forward with a groggy male in his grasp.
Petra could only gape, her breath caught in her lungs and her gut tight with tension. She didn’t know what to think, what to do. The male she loved and the male who’d given her life were headed straight into the center of the gathering stones.
“Here’s your lost paven,” Synjon said, his eyes hard and narrowed on Feeyan. “Battered and bruised and showing off his pure blood.”
Gasps and murmurs echoed in the cavernous space as Syn tossed the unconscious paven at the Order leader’s feet.
Petra didn’t know what made her do it. What made her cry out and rush—not at Syn—but at her father. Curled on the ground, he looked so old, so pathetic. This was her flesh and blood. The male who had given her life, given her to the best family in the world.
Her hands ran over his back, his neck. Someone who did all of that couldn’t be completely evil. There had to be good somewhere in him, decency in him. She wanted so badly to know it. Not just for herself, but for her balas.
A hand crushed hers, and another gripped her shoulders. She managed only a squeak of shock and protest before Cruen jacked to his feet, yanked her up and slammed her back against his chest. Before anyone could move, he curled one hand around her neck.
24
Syn felt every bloody emotion on the planet run through him as he stared at Petra’s face. Fury, fear, love, regret. They were all there and all shockingly intense. His hands twitched at his sides. His fangs dropped low and sharp. And a growl he’d never heard before ripped from his throat.
Life was repeating itself. Only this time, he wasn’t going to allow Cruen to take his heart and soul from him.
Around the gathering stones, everyone held their breath. Not only was Cruen slowly pressing Petra’s windpipe, but his fangs were out and pointed at a spot on her temple that could shut her brain down in an instant.
“Let her go,” Syn said in a low, dangerous voice.
Saliva dripped from Cruen’s fangs onto Petra’s cheek. “Another female for you to mourn, Wise?”
“And for you,” Syn replied, trying not to look at Petra. Her fear, her sadness would weaken him. “As this one happens to be your daughter.”
“Yes, that is unfortunate. But power comes before all.”
“Especially when you’ve lost yours completely.”
Cruen’s gaze flickered in Feeyan’s direction.
“That’s right,” Synjon said. “They know. They know you’ve been hiding out here, eating the flesh of some ancient water beast to try and retrieve your power. Can you flash yet? Or are you still using your Pureblood guard?”
Behind Feeyan, three Order members gasped.
Cruen growled and pressed his fang against Petra’s temple.
“Do it and I will rip your flesh from your bones in under a second,” Syn promised blackly, inching forward.
“And I’ll fucking eat it when he does,” Dani said, jumping down from the high rock to stand beside him.
Petra cried out, flinching.
“Enough!” From behind the Romans, an older female stood up. She was tall and lovely, and her eyes, so similar to Petra’s, locked with Cruen’s and she shook her head at him. “That is our daughter.”
“Cellie?” Cruen’s grip on Petra eased and his eyes softened as he stared at the female. “Cellie, you’re here.”
“Let her go, Cruen.”
He shook his head. “I can’t.”
“You won’t take her from me again.”
“Cellie, I didn’t—”
“You took her. From my birthing bed.” Her voice broke with emotion. “Not to protect her, but to forge an alliance with the shifters so you could use them.”
Though his eyes remained soft upon her, he didn’t deny it. “I could’ve killed her and I didn’t. I did that for you.”
Petra whimpered, and Synjon’s entire body erupted in flame. He acted without thought, but with a lifetime of military combat training to guide him. Flashing from his spot beside Dani, he landed directly behind Cruen and wrapped his own hand around the male’s neck.
Cruen gasped, but he didn’t let go of Petra.
“What do you want?” Synjon whispered in his ear.
“You. Dead.”
“No. That’s not what you want. Say it.”
Cruen hissed. “Take them back.”
“My emotions.”
“Yes.”
He could scent Petra, her fear, her sadness, and it made him insane. He pulled air into his lungs. “If I do, you will release her immediately following, or you’re dead.”
“You must love my daughter.”
“I love Petra,” Syn clarified. No male who treated his young like this could be called a father.
Still gripping the paven’s throat, Syn lowered his head, so his temple was flush with Cruen’s face and fangs.
“Go back on your word, and every Roman, mutore, and shifter in this place will take you down before you have a chance to pull your next breath.”
The last word wasn’t even out of Syn’s mouth before Cruen’s fangs thrust deep into his temple. As before, on the floor of Erion’s dungeon, the blood drain was executed painfully, quickly, but this time Syn let go and gave in. As he opened his mind wide, to a world of past hurt and sadness and regret, emotions flooded his senses like a massive and unceasing ocean wave.
And then there was nothing. And everything. And Cruen was pulling out of his head, and he was back, standing in the gathering stones, scenting Petra, gripping Cruen, with his entire arsenal of baggage. All the hate and all the love.
And bloody hell, all the newfound strength.
Syn’s fingers dug into the paven’s throat. “Release. Her. Now.”
Cruen stood there for a moment, unmoving, no doubt thinking and plotting and planning. Could he use Petra another way? Could her death be of benefit? Or her life? And then suddenly, he opened his hand and freed her from his grasp.
“Go, Petra,” Syn commanded gently. “Go to your family.”
As Petra took off, holding her neck, stumbling forward, dizzy, into the arms of her mother, Cruen shouted at all of them, “You’ll never contain me, and you know it. None of you are able to. Even with my power waning, I will always be the one to rule this Breed.”
Her eyes frosty, yet the most controlled Syn had ever seen them, Feeyan moved forward. She began with an incantation, then slowly circled her arms around Cruen, wrapping him in some kind of invisible magical vise. She sighed, clucked her tongue. “I’ve always enjoyed our back and forth, Cruen. Our sharing of knowledge and power. Even our battles. But you have shamed not only yourself but the entire Eternal Breed. Your daughter”—her lip curled—“forcing her to live with these creatures. Not knowing her true worth. A Pureblood veana.” She leaned in, snarled as he struggled against her magical bonds. “Consuming the flesh of . . .” Her nostrils flared. “You have just insulted every Pureblood on the planet. In truth, I have stumbled somewhat in my governing of our kind as of late. Perhaps I was under the impression that I could not measure up to your way. It made me reckless and far too interested in proving myself to others. But I see now that your way wasn’t in service of the Eternal Breed. It was in service of you.” She glanced up at Syn, who was still holding Cruen by the throat. “I will take him now. Deal with him in my own way.”