Pain.

White-hot motherfucker goddamn that hurts like someone’s picking me apart with tweezers and a sledgehammer.

I open my eyes and shake my head, trying to clear it. Fear-scent nearly overwhelms the stink of burning plastics. My shoulders are killing me. I stare down at my hands, at my claws, spread out impossibly. Feels like they’re dislocated.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Clenching my hands into fists, I twist my wrists. I remember molten metal, injected under my skin as I try to retract the claws. No fuckin’ way. I have to manipulate the claws back, shove ‘em where they need to be and goddamn, that hurts.

Finally, I can get up, get off the car. I pass by a set of chairs and her scent hits me.

Rogue.

The motherfucker has her.

"You picked the wrong girl, Mags," I snarl, the firelight gleaming off my claws like blood.