All Chapters of Healing a rogue princess: Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

*Zac* The clearing is eerily quiet as Evangeline and I arrive, her wings folding gracefully behind her. The signs of struggle are evident… trampled grass, scattered leaves, and the unmistakable impression of helicopter skids in the earth. My heart pounds in my chest, each beat a reminder of the urgency pressing down on us. I crouch down, running my fingers over the disturbed ground. "I need to go after them," I say, my voice barely a whisper. The realization that Cynamon was taken from this very spot tightens something in my chest. Fear and frustration coil within me, threatening to unravel my composure. Evangeline stands beside me, her presence a strangely comforting anchor. "We’ll find her, Zac. But we need to be smart about it.” When I don’t respond she continues. “I know you are very capable, but you are human… they literally have an army.” I know she is right of course, so I nod, trying to rein in the panic clawing at my insides. My mind races, jumping from one thought to th

*Zac* The abandoned warehouse reeks of mildew and despair, a fitting backdrop for our desperate meeting. Rain hammers the corrugated iron roof, mirroring the storm inside me. We had managed to get in contact with Cynamon's brother and set up this meeting. He had been in hiding after a near capture, which is the reason he had not been able to warn Cynamon. He had hoped they did not know where to find her. So here we are, pretending to make plans like some heroes in an action movie. Across a scarred wooden table sits Cukier, his slightly wolfish features etched with grim determination, his usually vibrant eyes shadowed with worry. Nick sits beside him, having come no questions asked when I called. Evangeline, perched on a crate, radiates an unnervingly calm energy, her wings neatly folded, a stark contrast to the tension in the room. “Cynamon was taken to the Blackwood compound,” Cukier’s voice is low and gravelly. “They’ve been consolidating captured werewolves there for months.”

*Nick* The rain lashes against the warehouse windows, a frantic percussion accompanying the frantic tapping of my fingers on the keyboard. Cukier’s hunched form is barely visible in the gloom across the table, the flickering laptop light catching the silver gleam of his pale skin. He’s muttering under his breath, a low, guttural rhythm punctuated by the occasional frustrated sigh. I can practically taste the tension in the air, thick and acrid like the smell of mildew clinging to the decaying walls. Zac’s raw grief and Evangeline’s simmering rage are palpable, but right now, my focus is laser-sharp: President Karina Horton. Her name, her public pronouncements on equality… they’re our only hope. A long shot, maybe, a desperate Hail Mary, but it’s better than nothing. Better than watching Zac self-destruct, or worse, seeing Evangeline unleash her fury on Blackwood Industries and ending up in a bloody, pointless war that only has one outcome… we die. I run my hand through my ha

*Nick* A week. A week of dead ends, each one a fresh stab of despair. Then, a crumpled napkin, discarded near an overflowing ashtray in a dimly lit bar… a name scribbled on the back: Miles Kendrick. Low-level security, gambling debts visible in the tremor of his hand, and a weakness for expensive bourbon. Cukier’s eyes, usually hidden behind a screen of nervous energy, gleam with predatory amusement. “Our key,” he murmurs, the words a low purr. “A little… persuasion, and Kendrick will be more than happy to unlock the President’s private suite. For a price, of course.” The Grand Hyatt looms, a steel and glass monolith against the bruised twilight sky. Inside, the air hangs thick with the scent of polished marble and expensive perfume, a stark contrast to the stale beer smell clinging to Kendrick. Cukier, a chameleon in a perfectly tailored suit, moves with a practiced grace that borders on supernatural. He isn’t just walking; he is gliding, his presence subtly erasing itself from t

*Zac* The air crackles with the sound of gunfire. I see Evangeline's face, I am not sure I have ever seen anyone look that furious, but her eyes are full of determination, as she throws that paperweight. Then, it feels like the world is a blur. One second, I'm staring down the barrels of several very scary-looking guns; the next, I'm falling. Falling really fast to a certain dead. The wind screams past my ears, a deafening roar that drowns out the shouts and the still-echoing gunfire. As the ground rushes up to meet me, I close my eyes, hoping for a miracle. Suddenly it is like time slows, or actually I slow. My eyes springs open and Evangeline is there, holding me, her face pale, but her eyes blazing with relief. Those goddamn fairy wings are unfurled, shimmering like iridescent stained glass in the twilight. She looks strained, almost burdened by something heavy. Me. Her breathing is slightly laboured. She lets out a groan, and I feel like apologising for my size,