Terror exploded in my stomach as my arms were stretched, causing my back to bow. Blood in my veins turned to slush as icy breath moved against my cheek, followed by the feel of drier, softer lips.

My struggles stilled. A thousand different horrific scenes rapidly played, each one more disturbing than the last, being forced into a helpless position where I couldn’t fight back, couldn’t do anything to stop whatever might be coming—

No.

I wasn’t helpless. I wasn’t captured. I wasn’t without a weapon—a weapon I should’ve used by now. A weapon that I’d been repeatedly trained to use as the last resort. Clarity struck me with the force of a bullet to the brain.

Those years of training were wrong.

And listening to them had been my greatest weakness. Not my vision. Not my feelings or my fear. I shouldn’t ever allow things to escalate to the last resort. I should never be in a position like this when I could’ve prevented it.

Terror gave way to rage, turning that slush in my veins to fire. My grace roared to life, and I tapped into it. The corners of my eyes flared with golden-white light.

Whoever this bastard was, he was about to get the surprise of his life.

The grip on my wrists shifted until one hand bit into my bone. The other gripped me by the neck, pulling me forward while holding me back. Muscles stretched to the point of tearing.

“It’s a little late to use your grace.” The voice was distinctively Southern, a deep twang that would’ve been charming in any other situation. It wasn’t at all lost on me that he knew what I was. “That should’ve been the first thing you used, darlin’.”

“Did you seriously just call me darling?” I growled, feeling the intense heat power up my arm.

“What should I call you? Trueborn?”

“How about your worst nightmare?”

“How about no? Because that would be a lie, darlin’. In reality, I’m your worst nightmare.”

I was suddenly released, and I staggered forward before catching myself. My grace flared from my palm, the handle forming as my fingers curled around the weight. Flames licked down the length of the blade, spilling a golden glow into the tunnel.

I saw enough of him.

Standing across from me, dressed in all black, hair so blond it appeared white and skin an alabaster shade that was near translucent. There was just a glimpse of his face, but I saw that his features were all perfect angles, although the sardonic twist to his lips turned the asymmetric beauty into something far too cruel and cold, like a young man carved from ice and snow.

The Sword of Michael spit fire as I lifted it high, more than prepared to end his life without hesitation.

“Cool toy,” he quipped, extending his right arm. “I got one myself.”