I shuddered. The moment still clung to me like ash.
That was two weeks ago.
And then the dreams came.
No. Not dreams, exactly. Not visions, either. Something else. Something worse.
I shoved the blankets off my overheated body and glanced down at the tank top I only wore in the privacy of my room. It clung to me, soaked with sweat, outlining the uneven plane of my chest beneath the fabric, flat on one side where the soft curve of my breast should have been. The surgical scar hidden beneath the cotton seemed to burn against my skin, a permanent reminder of everything I'd lost. Everything that made me less than whole.
My hand moved instinctively to cover the left side, fingers splaying protectively over the absence. A gesture so automatic I barely registered doing it anymore. Even alone, in the darkness of my bedroom where no one could possibly see, the shame crept in like poison, seeping through my defenses and settling deep in my bones. What kind of mate would ever want someone so obviously broken? Someone whose own body betrayed them before they'd even had a chance to live? The thought twisted inside me, a familiar knife that never dulled no matter how many times I turned it against myself.
NOT that I was looking for a mate.
My fingers drifted automatically to the inside of my left wrist, finding the small crescent-shaped marks already etched there. Evidence of too many sleepless nights, too many moments when the chaos inside felt too big for my skin. I pressed my thumbnail into the tender spot just below my pulse, adding to the collection. One... two... three seconds of pressure. Just enough to sting. Just enough to cut through the fog of powerlessness and make me feel real again.
I forced myself to exhale and let go, shaking out my hand like what I'd just done didn't mean anything. Like it wasn't something I did far too often. Like the tiny marks weren't a roadmap of every time I'd felt too much and had nowhere to put it.
Grabbing my phone off the nightstand, I stumbled into the bathroom, flicking on the too-bright fluorescent light. My reflection stared back. Wild black hair tangled around my face and green eyes sharp with unease. Dark shadows pooled beneath them, bruise-colored bags that made me look like someone who hadn't slept in weeks. Because I hadn't.
I dropped my eyes in disgust.
The Moss bloodline was famous among New Orleans witches. My grandmother could summon lightning from a clear sky. My mother once closed a mortal wound with a touch and a whispered word. My cousins had gifts that turned heads and earned whispers of awe.
And then there was me.
Talin Moss.
The family footnote.
The one whose magic had tried to kill her before it even fully awakened.
I'd never said it out loud, but I had a suspicion that had haunted me since I was fourteen. That the cancer, the cells turning against me, had been connected to whatever power was trying to emerge. That my own magic had been eating me alive from the inside, and maybe it still was. Maybe that's why I couldn't control it now. Maybe that's why touching the threads felt like grasping at something that might burn me.
Why I was terrified to even figure out what my dreams meant because I couldn't help but wonder if they'd destroy me in the process.
I splashed cold water on my face, avoiding my own judgmental gaze. What kind of witch received warnings she couldn't understand?
A defective one, that's what kind.
My phone buzzed on the counter, the sudden vibration breaking the silence and making me jump. A message lit up the screen.
Coven meeting tonight at 8pm. Try to make it if you can.
Try to make it if you can. Not "we need you there" or "your input is important." Just... if you can. Like an afterthought. Like they'd already planned everything that mattered and remembered at the last minute to include me.
I could picture them now. My aunt and cousins sitting around the table, discussing real solutions while saving a seat for me out of obligation. The one whose power was too unpredictable to trust, too weak to rely on.
Just like the rest of me.
I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed tight over my lopsided chest. Whatever. I'd grown used to being on the outskirts of things. Living in the shadows. Sitting in the corners of rooms where no one looked too closely.
Fragmented memories of the dream still danced behind my eyes. A snarl of threads, a face I couldn't place, eyes burning with something ancient. And a hunger that wasn't mine.
The coven wouldn't believe me if I told them. They never did.
But I had to try.
Whatever this meant… whatever the visions were trying to show me…
