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Azazel pressed her back against the rough bark of a towering tree, forcing herself to take shallow breaths. The icy night air bit at her exposed skin, the only warmth coming from the adrenaline coursing through her veins. Every sound in the forest seemed amplified—the snap of twigs beneath her boots, the rustling of leaves, and the distant, guttural snarls of her pursuers.

Her wrists still bore the raw marks from the shackles she'd snapped during her escape, the faint taste of iron still lingering from biting through her own lip to muffle her grunts of effort. The prison had been a pit of despair, designed to break the strongest of wills. But they'd underestimated her resolve.

The vampires wouldn't.

Azazel knew they would hunt her until they had her head on a pike. She was too valuable to let go, a prisoner who had seen their hidden network beneath the city—a place mortals rarely lived to talk about.