Blood dripped into my eyes as I clawed my way through the crumbling tunnel, the stench of burning flesh and sewage choking me with every breath. Behind me, two of my remaining warriors struggled to carry Ronan, whose body hung limp between them.
"Alpha, the ceiling's coming down!" one of them shouted.
I didn't stop. Couldn't stop. Every fiber of my being was locked on a single purpose: get back to Seraphina and Rhys.
The priest's words hammered in my skull: "The master will have his boy."
"Move faster!" I roared, shifting partially to grab a massive chunk of concrete blocking our path. My muscles screamed as I hefted it aside, clearing the way for my injured men.
Three more of my warriors limped behind us, one dragging an unconscious comrade. We'd entered this mission with eight elite fighters. We were leaving with six—two dead, the rest injured. And for what? A trap. A fucking diversion.
