Bishop remained perfectly still under my touch, his muscles hard as iron.

The circle I drew on his neck was the command to prepare for a sudden, silent strike.

He did not growl.

He did not bare his teeth.

He simply shifted his weight onto his back legs, his claws digging into the dirt floor of the warehouse.

“Hurry up,” Victor said, his eyes scanning the dark corners of the ceiling.

“Something is wrong,” Victor added, his voice dropping to a whisper.

The guard with the rope reached out and grabbed my shoulder.

His hand was cold and heavy.

I let my shoulder drop, leaning into his weight to make myself seem helpless.

At the same exact second, I stopped the circular motion on Bishop’s neck and pressed my thumb hard into the hollow behind his collarbone.

It was the command to launch.

Bishop exploded upward.

He did not go for the throat.

He drove his eighty-pound body directly into the guard’s shins.

The man let out a sharp grunt as his legs swept out from under him.