Jarrah wanted to shield Rayne's eyes from the gruesome scene laid out before them, but it was too late to catch her. She whirled around his body, her body soaked from the joys of the lake, and he watched the light leave her eyes before he could stop it. Her sweet face contorted with grief and a heart-wrenching cry tore fast and jagged from her chest.

The forest wept at the horrified tears glittering down ashen cheeks. Even Jarrah's arms—strong and reassuring—couldn't stop the gruesome image of a decimated community of shifters, slaughtered, across the forest.

Bodies in both human form and wolf form had their throats torn and puncture wounds drilled into the sides of their necks. Eyes were opened and closed, arms embracing families, wolves laid out in front of their loved ones, and people laid out across the forest floor at every entrance of the trees. Traditional garments that more so resembled the Fae rather than other shifters Jarrah had seen were torn to pieces or showered in blood. So much blood that Jarrah knew one thing.

The vampires didn't come to feed . . . they came to kill.

Rayne tore herself out of Jarrah's arms. He dropped his helpless hands to his side and watched as she reached for the body closest to her. The tears coasting down her cheeks was a straight punch to his gut. There was nothing he could do to comfort her. Not while the guilt weighed her shoulders down and the grief consumed every part of her trembling body.

Rayne's wet fingers shook as they curled around the face of a young woman who couldn't have been much older than she was. Her eyes were closed and her deer-skinned dress soaked with blood, but from what Jarrah could tell, she was beautiful. He could picture her brown eyes alight with mischief, her brown cheeks flushed with life, and a smile that could bring even a king to his knees. It hurt his chest to picture her so closely to Rayne. He wouldn't know what to do if it were her lying there instead; lifeless and cold.

Jarrah didn't think he could survive such an image. The thought alone made his mouth go dry and his throat tighten with what could only be described as agony. So, he changed the course of his thoughts to something more pressing.

Jarrah knew Ambrosius was unhinged; he'd seen it first hand. But he didn't know he was that unhinged. What had the wolves or even the Fae done to deserve such savagery? There was no remorse in the bites, no hesitation in tearing flesh, and no stopping the brutal massacre of a community of shifters. He saw more rage than strategy, and he couldn't figure out why for the life of him.

Rayne pressed her forehead to the young girl's and mumbled something in her native tongue. There was so much ache in her voice, that Jarrah wanted nothing more than to pick her up and travel back in time to five minutes before. When he got to hold her to him and nearly confessed his growing feelings towards her. Feelings he never knew he could feel before her, and feelings he knew would last his entire life.

Terryn was right. He never chose another person before; not without a sense of obligation or opportunity behind it. Fae girls growing up loved whatever attention he'd give them, and he chose Terryn because she would be a great queen and he loved her as a friend anyway. It would have been easy. But Rayne reminded him that he didn't want easy. He wanted a woman who challenged his thinking, who reminded him to take a breath every once in a while, and remember what it was like to live in the moment. He wanted someone who didn't judge him for retreating back into the worst parts of his mind, someone who protected him, and someone who knew how to take charge.

Jarrah wanted to choose Rayne. He didn't know if it was possible, or if she'd ever pick him right back. She was an alpha-to-be after all, and he was the king of one of their rivals.

He supposed it didn't matter either way at the moment. After gazing out at the dead shifters, he knew they had been distracted from their mission for too long. They still had a battle to fight in Crimson Peak and back home. Their feelings could wait.

"Rayne," he said, his voice low and strained. "We have to go."

"We should have been here," she whimpered. Her wet lashes clumped together, further breaking his heart with every watery blink.

He swallowed. Hard. "I know," he whispered. "This shouldn't have happened."

It shouldn't have. Maybe if they were there earlier . . . they could have saved the Indigenous clan. But they were so caught up in themselves and what they had going on that it just—they were just—hell, they were too late. And he couldn't tell her not to feel guilty about it when he himself battled with the fault of what happened.

Rayne's heartbreaking tears dripped onto the young woman's face as she lowered her head back onto the ground. "I want to give them a proper burial."

Jarrah hated himself for saying it, but out came a forceful, "Rayne, we—we can't. Not until after Ambrosius is dead."

She brushed her hand over a child's face that was marred by the sharp nails of a ruthless vampire. Jarrah sensed a spark of anger from her warming body and a sharp growl reverberated around the echoing forest from the depths of her chest.

He wanted to comfort her in some way, but he knew better than anyone that there was nothing he could do or say that would make her feel better. The shifters were part of her in some way, and he knew somewhere that both the Creator and the moon goddess wept for the loss of innocent life.

Rayne mumbled low and dark, "I want him dead."

"I know," he pushed out, his voice soft and tired. He was so. Damn. Tired. And he just wanted one normal day with her, but as each tragic accident passed, the more impossible that concept seemed.

"I'll kill him," she hissed, her fingers curling into fists at her side.

"I know, Rayne. We all want him dead, but—"

"No," Rayne growled, snapping her head up to look at him. A fire brewed in the depths of her gaze, ready to unleash and burn all of those in her path. "I'm going to kill him, Jarrah. Me."

The conviction in her voice didn't leave the conversation open for discussion, and that worried Jarrah. He never saw her so angry before; so ready to destroy one of the oldest creatures across all of their lands. He wanted Ambrosius just as dead as she did, but he didn't like how harsh it sounded coming from her. Rayne wasn't usually so cold. Hell, she even cried when she killed her first vampire and woke up early enough to watch the nymphs dance every morning.

Jarrah didn't blame her in her pursuit to want to kill the vampire king. Hell he still wanted his own revenge on the blood-drinking bastard. But he wasn't fond of the idea of Rayne putting herself in blatant danger. She could get hurt in the process of seeking out her revenge, and Jarrah refused to let that happen. He'll protect her with everything in him when it comes down to what was coming with retrieving the elixir, and during Tʋnʋp.

He didn't know if he should tell her that, though. Instead, he said the only thing he could say at that moment. "We need to go, Rayne."

Rayne shot out one last breath of air. She didn't get up right away, and closed her eyes to say one last prayer for the dead community of shifters. Jarrah watched her wish them well on their journey back to the Creator, and shifted on his feet when she promised to step up and avenge their tribe. It was a promise filled with determination; a promise he knew she would do everything in her power to keep.

Rayne Vance was stubborn and adamant. Even if Jarrah warned her against the idea, he knew he could never convince her not to go through with it. But that was why he vowed right then and there to keep her safe from it all. He promised the Creator, the moon goddess, Rayne, and even himself to not let anything happen to her. She could seek out her own revenge if she wanted, but that didn't mean he'd have to let her face it all alone.

Rayne rolled off her knees and balanced back onto her feet. Her words were soft in the wind. "Let's go," she murmured, sorrow lingering in her gaze after turning away from the scene to look up at Jarrah.

Jarrah hesitated at first. His arm lingered at his side for a moment, before he eventually reached out to rest a comforting hand on her forearm. He didn't know how else to comfort her, because the dreadful sorry just never cut it. Physical comfort sometimes said more than what words couldn't.