THE ALARM wasn't a siren; it was a rhythmic, low-frequency thrum that vibrated through the floorboards of the security center, a sound specifically designed to bypass human ears and strike directly at demonic instincts.
Grayson didn't look at the monitors to confirm what his blood already knew.
Theron was here.
"Eastern perimeter is a feint," Grayson barked, his voice a jagged blade of authority. He didn't wait for Lucson or Carson to argue. He was already out the door, his stride a predatory blur.
His boots ate the distance between the main house and the greenhouse in seconds.
In his mind, the cold, clinical lines of the Nightweaver Protocol scrolled past like a death sentence. Back then, "the bait" had been a nameless variable, a disposable pawn to be discarded once the King was captured. He had written the 60% survival rate with a shrug of his shoulders.
Now, that 40% margin of error felt like a noose tightening around his own throat.
