“How many times what?”
He slows his words. “How many times did he take your blood?”
“Does it matter?”
He pinches the bridge of his nose. I nudge him with my foot.
“What?” I ask. “What can she do with it all?”
“She can do whatever she wants with your blood,” Silas answers from the front. His voice is strained. He’s angry again for some reason. His knuckles turn white on the steering wheel, and I can hear the plastic crack. Our bond has been doing weird things all day, and since I can recall their entire conversation, I know he’s practicing tamping down our connection.
It hurts. Each time I feel our bond dim, it fucking hurts.
But at least I expected it. And I don’t ask him to stop, because it’s what he wants. I owe him this, at least.
“She can track you, for one. She can begin to layer a spell, setting the groundwork for something bigger, like taking your autonomy away. Which means she can make you do whatever she wants.”
“Is that what she did to you?” I ask.
His jaw ticks. I can only see his profile, but I can tell how hard this is for him. I tread more gently. “I mean—shit, I’m sorry, Silas. I just meant—”
“Yes, that’s what she did to me. The difference is, she can’t command you, not yet. That would take a while, even for her. She could command you if you were standing in front of her, like she did back in the woods, but you need to hear the words from her mouth, she can’t do it at a distance. They had already captured me, and she had a whole list of commands ready before she ever let me out of her sight. That’s why I couldn’t leave, couldn’t contact my brother, couldn’t—”
His words trail off. Through the bond, I can feel Silas’s unease. He can’t mute it completely, he’s still practicing. And I can’t help it, it’s in my nature—I try to soothe him. My omega reaches out, offering comfort.
But it makes him visibly recoil. And the bond he’s been slowly suffocating, working on closing all day—it slams shut withsuch brutal force I actually cry out. Like he panicked when he felt my comfort and yanked it from my chest. Our connection is still there, but it’s gone cold. A flowing magical tether with no end, like static on a TV.
My trembling hand goes to my chest. The pain feels raw, physical. I search for his eyes in the mirror, but he refuses to look at me. Ghost, somehow sensing what’s happened, half-reaches for me. Then his fingers curl back into a fist in his lap, and he abandons me, too.
He knows exactly what Silas has done, and he doesn’t care. My omega whimpers, feeling betrayed, but I press my lips together, biting my cheeks so hard they draw blood, desperate to swallow down her pathetic crying. I don’t want them to hear her.
After a tense, horrible moment, Silas says softly, “Don’t worry. We won’t let it get that far. Deidre won’t touch you. If we get you to Silent Peak, the entire clan together can protect you.”
My chest splinters at his subject change, so my words come out a little shaky. “And who will protect the clan?”
“We will.”
“Together?” I ask hopefully.
Both men avoid my eyes. Ghost studies the floor between us, then fixes his gaze out the window. Silas’s jaw twitches.
It’s fine. I'm fine. They’ve sacrificed enough. I should be grateful they stayed this long and helped me this much.
I use the blanket Ghost stole from the department store as a pillow. He gives me a soft smile without meeting my eyes, offering his bag, but I brush him off. I don’t want his obligatory concern.
For a minute, I listen to the sound of the tires speeding over pavement, the churn of the A/C. There’s a rustling sound—Ghost digging through his bag. I’m exhausted, but I’ve been fighting sleep for days now, as if staying awake might somehow pausethis journey, freeze us in this moment before everything changes and they leave me.
My mind slips, falling fast through the layers of darkness. My body stops hurting, and the ache in my heart lessens. I feel a hand on my back. Gentle, but persistent. I turn and realize the person touching me was reaching out through me. Sounds filter in, from echoing silence to a cacophony of laughter, glasses clinking, country music blaring.
She’s there waiting for me. Dimples dug deep into dark, plump cheeks as she smiles wide. The sun behind her makes her glow. She’s radiant and sweet, and I adore her already. She smells of strawberries and nothing else. Summer strawberries in a field, mashed into jam, fresh on your plate—sweet, fruity, happy, rich, and decadent.
Behind her, rows of liquor bottles and stacks of empty pint glasses stand before a giant mirror. She’s tending bar, and her smile, as she looks at the person behind me, grows brighter. She takes their money and hands them a beer. Something urgent tugs at me.
My heart starts racing. I look around, but nothing seems off. I’m just… at a bar. The giant mirror behind her reflects the backs of the bottles and all the patrons. Beyond that, through the front glass windows, I see a parking lot. I turn. In the distance, there’s a lone cactus and an expanse of flat landscape. The dirt looks red, like clay.
The woman serves drinks and smiles and laughs. Beneath the bright strawberry is the unmistakable scent of a delta.
I force myself awake, gasping for air.
