Chapter 121
“Stay back!” Wake’s snarl slices through the chaos, a guttural command that freezes me in place. It’s not a warning—it’s an order. His tone is edged with raw fury, and for a moment, it’s enough to stop me in my tracks.
My breath catches in my throat as I watch the two figures lunge at him. Their movements are fluid and precise, confident in a way that borders on arrogance. These aren’t random thugs. They’re trained—dangerously so.
And unlike anyone we’ve faced before, they’re more than prepared to take him on.
Wake doesn’t hesitate. He meets their charge head-on, his fists connecting with bone, his sheer strength a force of nature. But something’s wrong. These fighters are different. One ducks under his swing with ease, delivering a sharp punch to his jaw that actually makes Wake stumble back.
I’ve never seen him struggle in a fight.
“Wake—” I take a step forward, instinct overriding reason, but his snarl cuts me off like a whip crack.
“Stay back, Phoebe!” His voice is razor-sharp, leaving no room for argument.
I freeze, my hands trembling as I watch the scene unfold. My pulse pounds in my ears, and every fiber of my being screams at me to do something, anything. But I don’t dare move. Wake’s never spoken to me like that before.
His movements shift, becoming sharper, more deliberate. This isn’t the Wake I’ve seen overpower human opponents with brute strength alone. This is the soldier, the predator, the hunter who’s had to fight for his survival. Each strike is calculated, each dodge an instinct honed in life-or-death situations. He’s no longer just strong—he’s lethal.
But it’s two against one, and these fighters are relentless. They move in sync, flanking him on both sides, forcing him to split his attention. One darts low, snaking a leg behind his and stomping on his knee. Wake grunts in pain, dropping halfway to the ground.
“Wake!” I scream, the sound tearing from my throat before I can stop it.
He doesn’t respond, and neither do the assailants. They’re too focused, too intent. The taller of the two grabs an end table, hefting it like it weighs nothing. Before I can shout a warning, they slam it down on Wake’s head. The sound of splintering wood echoes through the room as Wake collapses onto his side.
“No!” My cry is raw and desperate, my hands clawing uselessly at the air. Blood streams down his face, vivid against his ashen skin. My heart feels like it’s being crushed in a vice.
“Fucking finally,” one of them grunts, rolling their shoulder. “Strong fucker. Get the Manta, make sure he’s out, then get the girl.”
The other pulls a sleek, dark object from their back—a weapon, angular and menacing, that looks too much like an assault rifle for comfort.
Panic tightens around my chest like a steel band. I can’t think. I can’t breathe. “Don’t you fucking dare!” I scream, my voice cracking under the weight of my fear.
The air shifts. It’s subtle at first—a faint prickle against my skin, a static charge that raises the hair on the back of my neck. Then it hits. The clear morning sky outside darkens, clouds rolling in with unnatural speed, thick and black as ink. A rumble of thunder rolls across the heavens, low and ominous, shaking the bungalow’s fragile walls. The air grows heavier, oppressive, and the scent of ozone fills my nose.
Wicked lightning slashes through the clouds, jagged and brilliant, illuminating the room in bursts of blinding light. And suddenly, I feel it. It’s in my veins, a current running wild beneath my skin. It’s in my bones, singing to me, a song I’ve always known but never understood. The electricity is alive, raw and untamed, and it’s mine.
The two assailants freeze, their masks hiding their expressions, but their hesitation is palpable. The one holding the weapon takes a step back, then another. “Shit. Fuck!” His voice trembles, a sharp contrast to his earlier confidence. “She lied to us!”
She. My mind snags on the word, but the thought doesn’t stick. It doesn’t matter. Nothing does—not who sent them, not what they thought they knew. The storm answers to me now. I am its heart, its voice, its fury.
Wake lifts his head, blood streaking down his temple. His eyes lock onto mine, and for the first time, I see something there that I can’t name. Not fear—not of me, anyway. It’s something deeper. Something raw.
The ice in my stomach melts into liquid fire, searing through me like molten lava. The energy isn’t coming from within me—it’s descending from above, drawn by some primal force I can’t control. I lift my hands, and the storm responds.
The first bolt of lightning strikes, blinding and deafening. The bungalow shudders, the floor beneath my feet vibrating with the force of the impact. The assailants are thrown like rag dolls, crashing into walls and furniture. One of them slams against the doorframe, slumping to the ground in a heap.
The second strike comes almost immediately, splintering the thatched roof and igniting the dry fibers. Flames erupt, climbing greedily along the beams, casting flickering shadows across the chaos. Smoke fills the air, thick and acrid, burning my throat and stinging my eyes.
“Phoebe!” Wake’s voice cuts through the roar of the storm. He’s struggling to his feet, his movements sluggish but determined. “Call it off! You have to stop this!”
“I can’t!” The words tear from my throat, raw and desperate. “I don’t know how!”
The electricity races through me, wild and unrelenting, paralyzing me in place. I’m a conduit, a vessel for the storm’s fury, and I have no idea how to contain it. The world is light and fire and chaos, and I’m drowning in it.
Wake reaches for me, his bloodied hand outstretched, but before he can close the distance, another bolt strikes. The shockwave sends him sprawling, his body skidding across the floor.
“I can’t!” I sob, my knees buckling beneath me. “Wake, I can’t—”
And then the world goes blinding white.
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