Page 69 of Impawssible Magic

Dorothea wasn’t my fated mate—I’d spent five years convincing myself I’d used that up on a woman who was simply right, good, easy to love. Leire is none of those things: she’s sharp edges and soft heart, crystals she talks to like old friends, a familiar she refused to stop loving even when she thought he’d betrayed her. And I’m done running from it.

“Touching.” The Preserver’s lip curls. “But sentiment doesn’t change facts. She has mate potential. Left unchecked, she could pair with a shifter. Could produce offspring with capabilities we haven’t seen in centuries. We can’t allow that.”

“You can’t stop it.”

“We’ve been stopping it for a thousand years.” Her knife hand is steady. Professional. “A few deaths here and there, a few exiles, a few witches who simply... disappeared. The Severing was supposed to be permanent, but magic finds ways to rebel. So we became the correction.”

“Correction.” The word tastes like ash. “You murdered people. Destroyed families. Enslaved a familiar for years to isolate one woman from everyone who loved her.”

“Necessary measures for the greater good.”

I shake my head slowly. Blood drips from my chin onto my bare chest. The evening air is cold against my skin, but I barely feel it. “There is no greater good that justifies this.”

“Spoken like a man blinded by hormones.” Her voice sharpens. “Do you know what happens when witch-shifter pairings form? The power they generate? It destabilized entire regions before the Severing. Wars were fought. Populations decimated. The Preservers aren’t the villains here—we’re the guardians. Keeping the world safe from chaos.”

“By deciding who lives and dies.”

“By making hard choices.” Her eyes are flat. Certain. “Someone has to.”

Time stretches.

I feel the other two Preservers tensing. Ready to fight if I charge. Ready to run if the situation deteriorates. They’re scared—I smell it under their training, the primal recognition that they’re facing a predator who’s already killed two of their friends tonight.

Good. They should be scared.

But fear makes people do stupid things. And the blade against Leire’s throat is a very stupid thing.

I need to end this. Now. Before someone gets twitchy and my witch bleeds out in enemy hands.

My gaze locks with Leire’s again. She’s watching me with an intensity that matches my own—reading my expression, trying to understand the plan, ready to move when I give her an opening. We’ve fought side by side. We’ve run from danger, bled in the same battle, almost died protecting each other.

She’ll know what to do.

Trust her. Trust myself. Trust this.

The last thought is the hardest. I’ve spent years learning not to trust feelings, not to trust love, not to trust that good things can last.

“You want to know what happens when a witch-shifter pairing forms?” My voice is steady now. Quiet. The calm before violence. “You’re about to find out.”

I shift.

My tiger explodes from my human form between one heartbeat and the next.

The Preservers expect me to charge toward Leire. To try to close the distance, put myself in reach of that knife. That’s what instinct would demand—protect the mate, get between her and danger, damn the consequences.

But I’m not just a tiger.

I’m a pride leader who’s fought a hundred battles. I’m a Protection Network veteran who knows how enemies think. I’m a predator who understands that sometimes the best attack is the one your prey doesn’t see coming.

I don’t charge toward Leire.

I charge the two flanking Preservers.

They flinch—training screaming at them to defend—and for one critical second, the woman holding Leire turns her head. Just a fraction. Just long enough.

Leire moves.

Her elbow slams back into the Preserver’s solar plexus. The knife wavers. Leire drops, twisting away, and the blade that should have opened her throat catches only air.