"NO!" I screamed, the word instantly escalating into a roar as I shifted into my wolf form. My bones and body shifted in a flash. It hurt—less than the first time, of course—but I barely noticed. I shook myself free from my captor's grasp and was halfway across the room in an instant, leaping for the man holding Rafe, my jaws gaping. He paled, taking a step backward and raising a hand to stop me.

But that hand disappeared into my mouth. I snapped my teeth shut.

The man's scream pierced my sensitive ears as my teeth clamped around his wrist. I wrenched my head to the side, tossing his severed hand aside, savoring the taste of his blood. He screamed again, staring at the bloody stump as I prowled forward.

Suddenly, a blow to my shoulder sent me staggering sideways. Almost simultaneously, I heard what sounded like an explosion behind me. I didn't turn; my eyes remained fixed on the man holding my son—but I knew, through our bond, through some primal wolf instinct, that it was Sinclair.

I kept my eyes on the man holding Rafe, regaining my footing and slowly prowling toward him. He backed up step by step, glancing over his shoulder at his dying colleagues. His fear was evident—in his expression, in his eyes, in the blood draining from his face as he realized he wasn't escaping. He was going to die here, watching his friends die first.

I heard my mate's ripping, snarling, roaring sounds in his gigantic wolf form, the masked men's screams as he took them down, the rending of flesh. Each blow resonated through me like a song as I bared my teeth at the man holding my child, staring him down.

It didn't take long for Sinclair to finish. I hadn't expected it to.

It seemed like only moments—though surely it was minutes—before I felt a warm human hand on my scruff, gentle fingers digging through my fur to my skin. I wasn't scared. I knew who it was. The only other man alive was my mate, and only he would touch me like that.

"It's all right, Ella," Sinclair said, a growl still resonating in his voice, the fury still pulsing. I looked up at him, at my mate, covered in our enemies' blood. A surge of something powerful—pride, maybe?—swept through me at the sight of him, my warrior mate with his savage soul.

Our eyes met for a moment, and then he saw the determination in me and nodded once.

Sinclair turned back to the man holding my crying child. "Give him to me," he demanded.

The man obeyed instantly, blood dripping from his trembling arm, his cause lost—perhaps seeking clemency by complying.

Sinclair took Rafe gently into his gigantic arms and turned away, shushing and gently bobbing our child.

Then, it was just me, the man, and my murderous rage.

I prowled another step forward.

The man raised his hands, palms out. "Please," he whispered.

It was a wasted breath.

I coiled, leaped, my paws hitting his chest, slamming him against the wall before my teeth sank into his neck, ripping out his throat.

He fell gurgling to the floor with me on top, growling down into his face as the life left his eyes.

When it was done, I turned to my mate, standing amidst the bodies and gore, a proud smile curving one side of his mouth.

I shifted back into my human form, standing up, the man's blood still covering the lower half of my face and running down my neck. With perfect control, I crossed the room and let my mate wrap me in his arms as I stared down at my crying child. And I reveled in every scream that echoed in my ears. Because if I could hear him, it meant he was still here, still mine.

I had done my job. I had kept him safe.

Sinclair:

I turned slightly, taking Ella and Rafe with me as Roger burst into the room, followed by several others. I'd ordered them to stay with the priest—to ensure his safety while I dealt with what was happening upstairs. Once the priest was secure, they were to come and help.

"Oh my god," Roger said, his eyes widening as he took in the blood—on the bedding, the walls, even the ceiling—and the bodies scattered almost artfully across every surface. "What the—how did you—"

"They came for Rafe," Ella explained, and I looked down at her, surprised by her calm. This was the woman who cried over Rafe's first teddy bear, the woman who wouldn't eat chocolate Easter bunnies because it felt too cruel to bite their ears off. But there was a ferocity in my little rose-gold mate that many—including my brother—forgot.

I smirked, pleased and proud. She had certainly reminded everyone of it today.

"We killed them," Ella said, her arms around my waist, giving a cool shrug.

"Yousure did," Roger said, still looking around wide-eyed. Then, his surprise fading, he looked at me with a grave expression. "Sinclair" he hesitated.

"What?" I asked, tensing. Ella tensed beside me, giving half her attention to Roger, the other half to Rafe, whom she took from my arms, resting her back against me, allowing me to wrap my arms around both of them.

"The priest" he said, shaking his head.

"He escaped?" I growled, filled with rage.

"No," Roger said, his eyes widening again. "Well, I mean—yes—but Sinclair, he disappeared. Vanished."

"Fuck," I snarled, whipping my head to the side, staring into space, trying to decide our next move. Somehow, it was all connected: either the priest allowed himself to be brought here to coincide with the kidnapping attempt to distract us, or the kidnapping attempt was the distraction—a sacrifice to free the priest. Or something else entirely.

Damn it, we didn't have enough information. And as today made clear, the cult was making its moves. And we simply weren't ready for them.