"Keep your head down and your mouth shut, or I'll drag you back by your hair," Kael hissed, his hand clamping onto my shoulder with enough force to leave a bruise.
I didn't shut up. I never do. "Maybe if you didn't walk like a dying ox, we wouldn't be in the middle of a goddamn alleyway waiting to get shot," I spat back, trying to shrug off his grip.
He didn't budge. His fingers dug deeper into my skin, a reminder that in this new, pathetic version of my life, he held the leash. We were deep in the Slums, the kind of place where the neon signs flickered like dying hearts and the air tasted of ozone and old grease.
"You're not a Saint anymore, Sera," he whispered, his voice low and dangerous, vibrating right against my ear. "You're a liability. Now stay. Behind. Me."
I glared at the back of his neck, hating how the leather of his gear hugged his shoulders, hating even more that I was actually following his lead. The 'cleaner' from the previous night had been a warning. Now, the air felt thick. Wrong.
Suddenly, a blur of motion exploded from behind a stack of rusted crates. A man—gaunt, eyes milky with some kind of combat stimulant—lunged at us with a serrated blade.
Kael reacted instantly, stepping in front of me and catching the wrist of the attacker. The sound of bone snapping echoed in the narrow space. The man screamed, but it was a wet, choked sound.
I didn't stay behind him. I couldn't. The sight of blood triggered something primal, a flicker of that old, violent divinity that still burned in the pit of my stomach. I dove forward, sliding under Kael's arm, and drove my elbow hard into the attacker's throat.
"Sera, get back!" Kael roared.
I ignored him. I was on top of the guy now, pinning his chest with my knee. I didn't have my light-spells, didn't have my holy fire, but I had nails and a level of hatred that could level a city. I gripped the man's collar, pulling him up just to slam his head back against the concrete.
*Crack.*
I did it again. And again. My vision went red. I wasn't the servant in the cramped apartment anymore; I was the tyrant of Neon City, and this piece of trash was just another stepping stone.
"Die," I hissed, my fingers digging into his windpipe. "Tell August I'm coming for him. Tell him I'll rip his eyes out of his—"
"That's enough!"
Kael's hand clamped around my wrist, wrenching me backward. The force was so sudden I lost my balance, slamming hard into his chest. The air left my lungs in a sharp gasp. He didn't let go. He pinned my wrists against the cold brick wall of the alley, his body pressing firmly against mine, trapping me in a cage of muscle and leather.
His chest was heaving, his heart drumming a frantic rhythm against my own. He was too close. I could smell the rain and iron on him, feel the heat radiating off his skin despite the midnight chill.
"Look at yourself," Kael breathed, his eyes searching mine, dark and intense. "You're shaking. You're feral. Is this what you want? To become the monster they say you are?"
"I *am* the monster," I snapped, though my voice trembled. I tried to kick him, but he just shifted his weight, pressing his thigh between my legs to keep me still. The friction of the fabric, the sheer dominance of the position, made my skin prickle. It wasn't fear. It was something far more irritating. Tension.
"You're a mess," he murmured, his gaze dropping to my lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back to my eyes. "And you're mine to keep alive. If you kill every lead we have, we'll never find the shards."
"I don't care about the shards right now," I whispered, my breath hitching as he leaned in closer, his forehead almost touching mine. "I want him to bleed. I want all of them to bleed."
Kael's grip didn't loosen, but his expression softened into something like pity—or maybe it was hunger. He stayed there for a heartbeat too long, the silence between us thick enough to choke on. I could feel the pulse in his wrist, the way his thumb brushed against the sensitive skin of my inner arm.
Then, as quickly as he'd pinned me, he shoved me away. Not hard, but enough to break the spell.
"Clean yourself up," he said, his voice returning to that flat, professional tone. "You've got blood on your cheek."
I wiped my face with the back of my hand, glaring at him. "You love this, don't you? Playing the hero while I'm the villain."
"I don't play, Sera," he replied, turning back to the body on the ground. "I just do the job."
He knelt beside the dead man, his movements efficient. I watched him, my heart still racing, the adrenaline refusing to fade. He started stripping the man's pockets, tossing a few credits and a rusted key aside. Then, he paused.
He reached into the man's inner jacket pocket and pulled out a small, sealed envelope. It was crisp, expensive paper—completely out of place in this gutter.
Kael tore it open. I stepped closer, peering over his shoulder. I could feel the heat of him again, the proximity making my nerves jump.
He read the note in silence. His jaw tightened, a small muscle leaping in his cheek.
"What is it?" I demanded. "What does it say?"
Kael didn't answer immediately. He folded the paper slowly, his eyes staring at the dead man with a new level of grimness.
"It's from August," Kael said, his voice sounding like grinding stone.
"What?" I stepped forward, trying to grab the note. "Give it to me!"
Kael stepped back, holding the note high out of my reach. He looked at me, and for the first time, I saw something like genuine worry in his eyes.
"He's not looking for you to bring you back, Sera," Kael whispered. "He doesn't want the Saint back on her throne."
"Then what the hell does he want?"
Kael looked at the note again, then back at my face, specifically my eyes. "He wants your eyes. He says the shards didn't just leave you—they migrated. And he wants them extracted. Personally."