Chapter 48 Emerald Skies
— Sunday —
I pull on the long blue dress draped over the chair and slip into a pair of flats—good enough for round-the-house wear, but useless if off-roading’s in my future. My hair’s a mess, but I tug it into a quick braid. Ain’t no point in trying to be fancy today.
As I open the door, a breeze rustles the curtains, carrying the faint scent of rain. I pause, eyes drifting to the horizon. A smudge of dark clouds gathers in the distance, but it’s May in Mississippi. If we didn’t have a storm brewing, I’d be worried.
I smile, step out, and let the screen door slap shut behind me with a satisfying whack. Outside, the air is thick and sticky—the kind of heat Granny used to call cling-wrap weather. I roll my shoulders back and take a deep breath, letting the breeze sweep across my face, blowing away just a bit of the humidity.
Somewhere out back, I hear the faint sound of music from the shop and Sumi’s sharp, indignant yip.
I catch myself humming—just a little tune, light and aimless—and stop, surprised. I can’t remember the last time I felt good enough to hum. That feeling in my chest keeps growing, till I feel so light that I could almost float away. It’s like everything’s finally settling into place, like I’m becoming who I was always meant to be.
My hand slips into my pocket, fingers brushing my phone. For half a second, I think about calling Colt. He’s probably out somewhere, pretending he doesn’t worry about me as much as I worry about him. I could catch him up, let him crack a joke about Tomas making an honest woman of me, thank him for the ribs, and even acknowledge he’s been less of a jack-hole than usual.
Shit. Does that mean Vivien’s good for him? I’ll have to discuss this alarming possibility with Shadow later.
I pull the phone out, thumb hovering over his contact. The thought of his dry drawl and that barely-there laugh lingers in my mind, tempting me—but nah. He’s probably busy, and I’ll see him soon enough. No need to interrupt whatever trouble he’s stirring up.
I slip the phone back into my pocket, shaking my head. “Later,” I mutter, my fingers lingering for just a moment before letting go.
A twinge of guilt digs at my stomach. Daddy would want to hear from me, too—a quick check-in, nothing fancy. I picture his handsome face, those eyes that always seem to see right through me. He’d grumble something about taking care of myself, about not getting into too much mischief.
But I push the thought aside. I’ll call him tonight— promise .
The wind sighs through the trees, a low, rustling murmur that sets the leaves trembling. It builds, twisting until the pale undersides flash like a warning. The air carries the faint scent of a garden before the rain, and I love it. It means the heat will break, and the dusty haze will be washed out of the air.
My eyes flick to the horizon, where clouds stack like dark bricks—layer upon layer of gathering menace. A shiver prickles at the base of my spine, but I shove it down. Storms are kind of exciting, after all.
“Just a late spring storm,” I mutter, trying to convince myself as much as the universe. I shake it off, square my shoulders, and head for the shop. There’s a whole afternoon ahead of me, and for once, it feels like the world’s actually on my side.
The rhythmic whine of the belt sander spills from the long, low building, familiar and oddly comforting. Sumi’s bark follows, but it’s fainter this time, farther away—and edged with something that makes my smile falter.
I slow down, gravel crunching beneath my feet, ears straining to catch the next sound.
Then I hear it.
Mishka’s voice, thin and tight with worry, calling from somewhere behind the shop. He’s trying to sound calm and serious, trying to sound like Tomas, but it’s not working. The smile slips away completely as a thread of unease knots itself into my perfect afternoon.
I take a step toward the shop’s open doorway, almost calling out to Ben and Shadow, but a flash of movement inside stops me cold.
A big porch swing, double-sized and half-assembled, is propped up on sawhorses. The wood is smooth, freshly sanded. The scent of sawdust and paint lingers in the air, tugging at memories of Daddy’s many handyman moments. Lazy afternoons spent swinging with a glass of sweet tea drift through my mind.
My heart squeezes. They’re making this for me. A surprise.
I love surprises, and this is a good one. The porch furniture we have is beautiful, but I’d be lying if I said I don’t head straight for Colt’s swing whenever we’re at the farm. And they noticed.
But the warmth of that realization fades as the wind shifts, carrying Mishka’s voice again—more urgent this time. I turn away from the swing, the sense of foreboding curling tighter in my chest.
My hand lifts halfway, the words ready to spill out. I’m about to wave to them, ask for help—but I stop myself. Let them finish. They’ve gone through the trouble of keeping it a secret, and I’ve demanded more than enough attention lately.
I shake off the tightness in my chest. Sumi’s just a puppy—he probably got tangled in something. And Mishka? Well, kids worry about the darndest things.
I can handle this
The gravel crunches beneath my feet, sharp rocks jabbing through the thin soles of my flats. I wince, shifting my weight with each step. Up ahead, the horse barn looms, its weathered wood stark against the darkening sky. I scan the paddock, searching for a flash of Mishka’s hair or Sumi dashing between hummocks of overgrown weeds.
Nothing.
A sharp gust rattles the chained barn doors, the clatter echoing through the empty yard. A shiver snakes down my spine, the air heavier now, dampness clinging to my arms. I’m grateful for the long sleeves, but it’s a cold comfort when the smell of rain is thick enough to taste.
“Fuck a duck,” I mutter, squinting at the clouds merrily assembling an anvil to drop on our heads.
I don’t want Mishka getting soaked to the bone out here. He’s tough, sure, but he’s still just a kid. And Sumi? That little mutt’s wet-dog smell could clear a room on a good day. He needs a bath anyway, but Lord help me if I have to deal with that stink all the way back to the house.
“Mishka!” I call, my voice sharp enough to cut through the wind. The sound bounces back at me, then vanishes, swallowed by the rising gusts.
I push forward, jaw tight. The wind bites, a stinging whip, and my hair fights me like an enemy combatant. Just a spring storm, I remind myself, squaring my shoulders. And I ain’t made of sugar. No one’s melting on my watch.
A shiver skates down my spine, cold and sharp—like someone just tiptoed across my grave. I blame it on the wind, now carrying a distinct chill.
Xavier picks up on it instantly. A soft, questioning brush across the bond—a feather-light caress, cautious but insistent. The question is clear, even without words: You good?
I grit my teeth and shove down the tangle of anxiety before it can bleed through. I send back the mental equivalent of a thumbs up and a forced smile—a burst of false cheer. I’m fine. No big deal.
The connection fades, reluctantly, leaving behind a ripple of doubt and concern. I lock the bond down tighter. They don’t need to worry. Not over a smart kid and a hyper puppy.
I suck in a breath and stretch out my gift—invisible tendrils of awareness unfurling ahead of me, sweeping through the weed-choked lane.
Nothing. No flicker of sentient minds. No impetuous puppy energy.
A sharp gust rattles the fencing, and my heart thuds harder.
Then I hear it.
A thin, desperate voice, carried on the wind from the field to my right.
“Sumi, please… stop running!”
The knot in my gut twists hard. I pivot, eyes narrowing. The grass here is tall and wild, whipping back and forth as though it’s trying to tear itself free from the earth. The sharp scent of damp soil and ozone curls around me, cloying and electric.
Then the rain hits—no warning, no mercy. The sky opens up, dumping the weight of the heavens in one furious, unrelenting torrent. The first drops sting like needles against my skin, and within seconds, it’s a solid wall of water, hammering down and churning the ground into a slippery mess of mud and debris.
I break into a run, my feet sliding with every step, shoes soaked through in an instant. My pulse roars in my ears, a frantic drumbeat pushing me forward.
The fence line looms ahead, barbed wire sagging between weather-worn posts. The wind tears at my hair, strands sticking wet and cold against my face. I glance back toward the shop, but it’s already swallowed by the gray edge of the downpour.
Mishka’s worried voice echoes through my mind.
There’s no time to turn back. The faster I find them, the faster we’ll be warm, dry, and probably covered in wet-dog smell—but safe.
I drop to my knees, fingers slick as I grip the lowest strand of wire and lift it just enough to squeeze through. As I duck under, a barb catches my forearm. A sharp sting blooms, a thin line of blood beading up, vivid against the rain-slick skin. A shiver dances over me—a faint, electric tingle as I cross the wards.
The sensation fades, but the weight of leaving safety behind settles like a stone in my stomach.
I hiss at the sting of my cut, more annoyed than hurt. The rain, now a thin drizzle, washes the blood away in lazy rivulets. I press my fingers to the wound and straighten, my breath misting in the damp air.
The world holds its breath—a tense, dripping pause, like the storm is waiting to see what I’ll do next.
I shove the feeling down.
It’s just a fallow field. Just a runaway puppy.
Holding my hair back with one hand, I squint at the tangled stretch of grass and half-collapsed fence posts ahead. The ground is soft and treacherous underfoot, still slick from the downpour. Water drips from my clothes, each cold rivulet a sharp reminder of how soaked through I am. A shiver curls down my spine, but I press on, my eyes flicking toward the still very unfriendly-looking sky.
“Mishka!” I yell, but the wind snatches my voice, carrying it away.
Nothing . No sign of Mishka or Sumi. Just the field—a sea of grass, twisting and rippling, concealing and revealing in turns.
Another gust, harder this time. The grass convulses in erratic fits, shadows flickering and shifting. For a heartbeat, I’m certain I see a small figure darting through the green. I blink, and it’s gone—just the wind playing cruel tricks.
Each step forward feels like a battle, the grass parting only to close behind me, conspiring to keep them hidden. The knot of anxiety in my gut pulls tighter, looping harder with every heartbeat. My breath turns sharp, my skin prickling with dread.
I stop, chest heaving, water trickling down my face.
“Shit,” I mutter, the word barely a whisper of realization. “He must have shifted.”
Panic claws at the edges of my mind, threatening to unravel me. I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing a breath in and out, trying to tether my thoughts. He could be anything right now.
And that scares me more than the storm ever could.
My gut clenches as my imagination conjures the worst possibilities. A dragonfly—fragile, gossamer-winged, carried away, battered and broken. A Hercules beetle—too slow, too stubborn, too easy to crush. I force my eyes open, the world swimming with shadows and doubt.
I can’t see him. I can’t see him anywhere.
“Come on, baby,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “Where are you?”
The wind doesn’t answer. It just pulls and pushes, the storm gathering strength, clouds churning overhead. The sky’s sickly green tint deepens, making everything feel off-kilter, like reality’s slipping sideways.
He’s out here. He has to be.
I close my eyes, forcing a steady breath. I stretch out my gift—the world fading to a hush, the wind dulling to a low roar as I reach beyond the noise, beyond my fear.
At first, there’s nothing. Just the chaotic churn of grass and dirt, the air thick with ozone. Field mice scurry, snakes slither—a scatter of brownish dots on my mind’s map.
Then, I see it.
A tiny, quivering bubble of life.
Fragile, but focused.
My stomach twists. Mishka. He’s shifted into something small, almost too small to catch with my gift. But it’s him. A flicker of blue—the color of his eyes—and that unmistakable pulse of frustration.
It’s not wild panic. No, this is the tense, coiled determination of a boy who handles stress better than most adults. He’s out there, holding himself together. Trying to be brave. Trying to be strong. Trying to be the responsible pet owner we’ve drilled into him—a child who would rather break than disappoint us.
“Dammit, kid,” I whisper, my voice shaking. He could be anything—a rabbit, a lizard—something so easy to lose, so simple to crush.
I stretch my awareness further, desperate, and there—just a few feet away—I catch another presence. Brighter. Simpler. Sumi.
His little puppy mind is a ball of pure, unfiltered joy. He’s loving this. The wind, the grass, the freedom. His emotions tumble through me—excitement, glee, the thrill of being chased.
“Sumi,” I mutter, clenching my fists. “You adorable little idiot.”
The wind shoves at me, my soaked dress snapping against my legs, my hair a wild tangle. Overhead, the sky churns into a queasy green, clouds roiling like a pot ready to boil over.
I scan the field, my gaze catching on a half-collapsed outbuilding to the right. The roof sags, old stones slick with moss. Bright green plants cluster at its base—too lush for this dry stretch of field.
Water. A spring or runoff. Maybe an old springhouse, maybe a smokehouse. Whatever it was, it’s long abandoned, but it’s shelter of a sort. They could be headed there.
The thought of water sends a fresh jolt of panic through me. Mishka, in whatever tiny form he’s taken, could get tangled up, could drown, could—
I shove the thought away, grit my teeth, and push forward. The mud sucks at my feet, the grass clings to my shins like it’s trying to hold me back. The wind picks up again, threading a low, eerie howl through the air, like the storm itself is whispering secrets I don’t want to hear.
Just a little further. The storm can wait. The fear can wait. My son cannot.
I brush damp hair from my eyes, squinting through the gathering rain. The world is a blur of motion—the grass bowing, the wind wrapping around me like a child testing its strength.
Then I see it.
The grass ahead stirs differently—a tight, spinning motion. The wind gathers itself, twisting into a narrow, swirling column. Leaves and debris spiral upward in its dizzying dance, glinting like dark confetti.
My breath catches. The edges of the whirlwind shimmer and blur, its suction making my skin prickle. It tugs at my skirt, pulls at my hair, like it’s inviting me to join the dance.
For a heartbeat, I’m almost charmed by it. The way it twirls and sways feels surreal, like something out of a dream or a storybook. Slowly, I reach out a hand, feeling the wind’s magnetic pull against my fingers.
I laugh—a breathless, shaky sound. The air crackles with wild energy, almost teasing, as if the storm is alive and knows something I don’t.
But somewhere deep in my mind, a whisper rises: Is that rotation in the clouds?
I tilt my head back, eyes narrowing. Above the dancing vortex, the sky darkens, the clouds churning with slow, deliberate menace. The playful breeze vanishes, replaced by something focused, hungry, wrong.
The whisper turns to a scream.
That’s no dust devil.
A sharp plink sounds at my feet. Then another.
I glance down. Tiny pellets of ice bounce off the grass, skittering like glass beads. Hail. The first few stones sting when they hit, like birdshot peppering my skin.
My mind flashes to Mishka’s delicate, shifted forms. These hailstones aren’t big, but they fall with enough bite to bruise—or shatter—a fragile carapace or diaphanous wings.
The hail isn’t huge, but each pebble lands with intent—like the bite of rock salt from a farmer’s warning shot.
“Mishka!” I scream, my voice raw. The wind snatches my words, hurling them back with a mocking howl.
The grass whips and bends, the air thick with the electric bite of ozone. The sky shifts to an acid green, quickly twisting into an Oz-shaded nightmare.
My shoes slam into the ground, clumps of mud clinging to my soles, trying to drag me down—but I won’t let it. Not with that twister behind me, moving like it has my name, dragging its skirts across the earth, threatening to tear up everything I love.
I stumble, a lurching, tripping kind of gait, my eyes wild, scanning desperately for Mishka or Sumi. The field is a blur of motion—the wind wrapping itself around me, tugging at my hair. Each step feels like it could be the last before the ground falls away.
A sharp gust rattles the earth. The wind screams louder, and the hail becomes a steady barrage, jagged stones hammering my back, my shoulders, my scalp. My dress clings, soaked through, ice encrusting the fabric like crystals on a ballgown, tailored specially for my cruel waltz with the wind.
“Mishka!” I yell again, my voice desperate, but it feels wrong—like yelling in a dream. The sound snags in my throat, thin and strangled, swallowed whole by the storm before it even leaves my lips.
Then, as suddenly as it began, the hail stops. The wind shudders and retreats—the roar cutting out, like someone flipped a switch. My ears pop painfully, the pressure shift sudden and unwelcome. The suffocating quiet presses on my eardrums like a vise.
I stumble to a halt, my breath ragged and shallow. The swirling walls of the tornado encircle me, a cylindrical prison of wind and debris.
What fresh hell is this?
I’m in the eye of the storm.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.
“No, no, no,” I whisper, panic clawing up my throat. My eyes dart to the churning walls, my mind screaming for an escape. Mishka’s out there. I feel it—a thread tugging at my heart—but the storm has swallowed him whole. The not-knowing presses down on me, a cold weight in my chest.
I force myself to breathe, clinging to a fragile sliver of hope. Maybe—God willing—he made it out. Maybe he’s on the other side of these walls, running for the packhouse, Sumi’s paws scrabbling beside him. Maybe he’s already in Ben’s’ arms.
But the storm whispers its doubts, each gust a cruel reminder that hope is paper-thin in the face of such fury. I swallow hard, my throat raw, the taste of rain and fear bitter on my tongue. Please, I pray silently. Let him be safe. Let him have made it out.
The walls of the tornado loom, the swirling vortex a cage of motionless violence. I strain my senses, pushing my gift as far as it will go, desperate for even the tiniest flicker of him—that familiar spark of anxious determination. But there’s nothing. Just the roar of the storm beyond the stillness, a monstrous boundary I can’t cross.
Don’t fall apart now. Don’t you dare.
And then it hits me: I’m alone. That realization sinks in just as the air parts like a curtain—and he steps through.
Silas.
He’s pristine—not a drop of rain mars his clothes, not a single loc is out of place. The wind that battered me, that tore at everything in its path, now swirls around him harmlessly, almost reverently, like it’s afraid to touch him.
Beside him, another figure stands, half-hidden in the swirling mist and shadows. A long, dark cloak wraps around them like a shroud, the fabric writhing with the wind’s restless energy. Their face is obscured beneath a deep hood, but the air around them pulses with a cold, malevolent fury.
A wave of realization crashes over me—hot, sharp, and sickening.
This is a trap.
And I walked right into it. I left the wards, shut down my bonds, and handed myself to him, wrapped up in wet and tattered bow. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
My fists clench, nails biting into my palms, and fury rises, fierce and unrelenting. I throw my bonds wide open, sending a surge of raw, desperate emotion—a silent scream ricocheting across the link. A beacon of fear, rage, and a plea for help, unstoppable and searing.
Come find me, my loves.
The effort steals my breath, but I don’t care. The bonds flare to life, bright and blazing, snapping into place like iron chains forged from love and fate.
And for the first time since the storm began, I’m not alone.
My head snaps up, my eyes burning with newfound fire. I lock onto Silas’s gaze, and the smirk on his face only fans the flames roaring in my chest.
My voice slices through the brittle air.
“Brought a friend? Didn’t realize you had any of those.”
His mouth curls lazily, dark eyes glinting with mockery.
“Spend a lot of time thinking about me?”
The taunt drips from his lips, but I don’t flinch. I let the anger hone me sharp, let it prop me up when my legs threaten to buckle.
“Only when I’m thinking about ways to kill you.”
The figure beside him shifts, their cloak snapping in the wind like a living thing. I don’t need to hear her speak to know it’s a woman. I can feel her. Like Jinx, she’s a witch—but where Jinx is moonshine and laugh lines, this one is cold, sharp, and deadly.
The pulsing power around her vibrates through the ground, seeping into my bones. Her presence is a void—a black hole of menace that devours everything it touches. And she’s into Silas, her excitement radiating like static in the air. She’s eager to help him, eager to clear me from her field of rivals.
My jaw trembles with the weight of that realization, but I lock it tight. The rage holds me together.
Silas’s chuckle slithers through the air. “How charming. Too bad you won’t get the chance.”
The tornado roars behind me, a violent beast pacing, ready to devour. I feel the edges of my mates’ presence brushing against my mind—faint but growing stronger.
They’re coming.
I just have to hold on.
I glare at Silas, teeth clenched, the storm’s chaos thrashing around me.
“We’ll see about that.”
The vortex looms, its fury vibrating through the earth, closing off every path to safety. The wind shifts again, and the air turns leaden, tightening in my lungs, each breath a battle.
An unnatural stillness settles over the field. As if the storm hasn’t abandoned me—it’s simply biding its time.
Then, there’s movement on the ground. A sickly green mist seeps up between the blades of grass, curling low and heavy. It oozes with purpose, spreading like poisonous ink in water, its tendrils slithering and twisting in the wind’s wake. The color is wrong—an eerie, venomous hue that mirrors the storm-darkened sky.
The first wisp brushes my ankle, and a cold dread sinks like a stone in my gut. I stumble back, heart pounding, my eyes darting wildly.
And then I see him. Mishka.
He’s popped up a few yards away, Sumi clutched tight to his chest. Rain streaks his face, his eyes wide with fear, but he’s already moving. Slowly, never taking his eyes off Silas and his companion, he places himself between me and whatever’s coming, his jaw set in that stubborn, determined line that makes my heart ache.
It’s a look I know well—a Ben look. The look that says he’s ready to dig in his heels and face down the world, no matter how the odds might be stacked against him.
He’s scared—I can see it in the trembling of his frame and feel it pouring off him. He’s scared to death, but bravery isn’t the absence of fear; it’s being terrified and doing it anyway.
And goodness , is he ever brave.
He sets Sumi down, the puppy’s paws scrabbling for purchase on the wet earth. Before I can scream a warning, Mishka clenches his fists, squares his small shoulders, and steps in front of Sumi—his frame trembling but unyielding.
My chest seizes.
No, baby. Please, no.
The mist curls around Mishka’s feet, winding higher like serpentine vines. The air turns colder, the world narrowing to this fragile moment.
His eyes widen in confusion, fear flickering like a candle in a storm.
No.
The fog slithers up his legs, clinging with malevolent purpose.
“No!” My voice cracks, raw and desperate. “Please, Silas, don’t!”
Mishka tries to run—oh God, he tries—but his steps falter. The mist grips him like quicksand, dragging him down. His knees buckle, his small body sagging under an invisible weight he can’t fight.
Sumi’s pale fur stands out against the wet grass. The puppy whines softly, a helpless, confused sound. Then his legs give way, and he crumples beside Mishka.
The fog thickens, coiling tighter, a suffocating shroud. My legs feel leaden, my muscles like stone. The mist seeps into me, cold and relentless.
I drop to my knees beside Mishka, my hands trembling as I clutch his shoulders.
“Mishka, baby, stay with me!” My voice is high-pitched, frayed, panic shredding every word.
He doesn’t respond. His eyelids flutter, glassy and distant, his breaths shallow and fragile.
“No, no, no.” The words spill out, a frantic litany, tears hot on my cheeks. “Please, wake up!”
The fog presses in, stealing strength, stealing hope. My thoughts blur, a thick cotton haze smothering my mind. The world tilts, the sickly green mist swallowing everything—my son, my senses, my will to fight.
This can’t be happening.
But the cold seeps deeper, and the darkness coils tighter.
And all I can do is hold on.
I try to hold on to Mishka, my fingers clutching his small shoulders, but they refuse to obey. My arms tremble, the last of my strength slipping away like water through a sieve.
“No,” I whisper, the word barely more than a breath. “Please… stay…”
His weight slips from my grasp. His small body crumples to the ground, Sumi’s pale form collapsing beside him. Panic claws at me, feral and useless—I can’t move. I can’t breathe.
I’m sinking.
No. Not like this.
A sudden flare of warmth ignites in my chest, raw and fierce, crashing into me like a wave.
My bonds blaze to life.
Tomas. Ben. Shadow. Even Gray.
Their fear, their rage, their love surge into me, each one a brilliant thread of light piercing the suffocating dark. Their voices roar through the haze—distant but clear, a last psychic salvo.
“Hold on, baby.”
“We’re coming!”
“Stay with us, Trouble.”
“Don’t you dare give up.”
I clutch at those threads, their love the only thing keeping me tethered to consciousness.
But it’s slipping.
I’m slipping.
A shadow falls over me.
I force my eyes open, vision swimming, the world a blurred mess of rain, wind, and fog—all of it unnatural and wrong.
Silas stands there, dark eyes narrowed, his mouth twisted into a glower of pure frustration. The storm holds its breath around him, the sickly green fog retreating like it fears to touch him.
This wasn’t his plan. I see it in the tightness of his jaw, in the flicker of anger and confusion as he looks at Mishka’s crumpled body.
Good. I hope I ruin his day. No—his whole fucking life.
He steps closer, his gaze locking onto mine, cold and contemptuous.
“It’s over, little thief.”
The fog rises, curling around my throat, squeezing, suffocating. My mind teeters on the edge of darkness.
Then, a prickle of energy—sharp and electric—ignites at the back of my mind.
A dark blur streaks forward through my consciousness, sleek and furious.
Shadow.
He manifests in my mind’s eye, an avatar of pure defiance and predatory grace. Emerald eyes blaze, teeth bared in a feral snarl. He prowls through the fog clouding my thoughts, weaving past the sluggish pull of the poison, until he faces the void lurking behind Silas’s eyes.
A new presence uncoils there—something massive, powerful, and warm. I feel it rising, a beast curled deep within Silas, lifting its head, watching.
For a heartbeat, the world contracts, trapping us all in this mental arena.
The dragon stirs—slitted eyes opening behind Silas’s cold gaze. Gold flashes like sparks in the dark.
My jaguar leaps—a furious projection of my mate’s soul—a war cry, a challenge hurled straight at the heart of Silas’s dragon.
They collide. The bond space inside my mind almost fractures under the force of it. It’s a conversation of claws and fangs, of denied bonds and territorial claims.
Silas’s eyes widen, shock breaking through his mask of apathy. A sliver of fear—or maybe recognition—flares there, something he can’t suppress fast enough.
The jaguar bares its teeth, a silent, brutal vow: She is ours. You cannot have her. Shadows weave around him, tangled and unctuous.
He snaps his jaws with a psychic crack that shatters the connection.
Silas’s face twists, his snarl edged with fresh fury. Then the green fog surges up, dragging me under.
And everything fades to black.