His rage was matched only by Zoen’s, who stood at his side, fists clenched. “We shall find her,” Zoen said quietly. Too quietly. Jaxt looked at his bondmate, his blood-sworn kin, and felt the energy in his body flare painfully. Zoen’s skin was lurid red, the color only seen when a Xyran loses all control, right before going on a berserker’s rampage. He’d never seen Zoen look like that, not even in battle—not during the terrible skirmishes they’d had on the trophy moon of Dero, not on Talus, not on any of the other dozen worlds where they’d fought together. “She has the tracker,” Jaxt said, wrestling his skin back to flesh-normal with effort. Perhaps if he calmed down, so, too, would Zoen. “Yes.” “We have the power cell.” Jaxt’s put a hand on Zoen’s wrist. His bondmate bared his fangs and hissed at him, quick as a snake striking prey. Jaxt glowered, standing straighter. “Stand down, Zoen. I am not your enemy.” “I am going to rip them to pieces,”
