I didn't see it. The knife in her hand. The hatred burning in her eyes. I didn't expect it. Not from Nia.
I was still holding my mother tightly in my arms, overwhelmed by the reunion, when the shriek from the audience snapped everything into slow motion. My head turned, just in time to see the glint of metal reflecting the studio lights—aimed directly at me.
Gasps erupted. Chaos broke through the crew's careful order. But I didn't flinch. I didn't have to.
In that single heartbeat, my pheromone exploded.
A gust of mint—sharp, violent, and possessive—lashed out like a living storm. The force was invisible, but undeniable. The knife in Nia's hand flung itself away, hitting the ground with a sharp clang. Her body, lifted from the ground, dangled mid-air like a puppet caught in my power's grasp.
People screamed. The cameras kept rolling.
But all I could feel was the pressure, the tightening of my chest, and the wild, protective flare of my scent.
