“Even better,” she purrs.
They circle up, monstrous and beautiful, forming a wide perimeter around us. Old friends. Pack. Family.
River tries to sit up, wincing.
“I thought you said they didn’t answer calls lightly,” she says.
“They don’t,” I reply.
I kneel beside her, pull a cloth from my pack and start cleaning her wound. Her skin is fever-warm. Her eyes are glassy, but locked on mine.
“You’re insane,” she says.
“Been told.”
“You could’ve died.”
“Been told that, too.”
“You’re not even human.”
“Nope.”
There’s a beat of silence, broken only by Bruce crunching something with too many bones.
“Thank you,” she says softly.
I look up. Her lips are chapped. There’s dirt smeared across her jaw. Her gown’s torn. Her hair’s a mess.
She’s never looked more like herself.
I wrap the wound, not tight enough to cut off blood, but snug enough to stop it leaking. Then I pull my cloak off and drape it over her shoulders.
“You’ll live,” I murmur.
“Because you almost didn’t.”
I shrug, but inside, my blood’s still howling. Not from pain. From power. The fight. The shift. The call.
This… this is what I was made for.
And it terrifies me.
Because I liked it.
River’s fingers graze mine.
“We’re not safe,” she says.
“Nope.”
“But we’re together.”
“Yeah.”
She closes her eyes, and I let myself breathe.
She fades in and out like a candle in a wind tunnel.
