“For standing still.”
The words hit him hard.I see the effect it has on him.See the beast in him go quiet behind his eyes, not gone, but listening.
Inside the bar, voices rise again.Plans.War.Monsters preparing to hunt monsters.Out here, in the narrow strip of alley between brick and shadow, I feel something else begin.
Not healing.I am not that optimistic.But maybe a seam.A place where torn edges might someday meet.
Knox looks toward the door.“They’ll be waiting.”
“Let them.”
His gaze returns to me, and I lift my chin.“Tomorrow night, I’m going to The Marrow House.”
His body tightens.“Briana...”
“I’m not asking permission.”
“I know.”
I blink.He looks like the words cost him bone.
“I’m asking for a plan,” he says.“One that keeps you breathing.”
My heart stumbles.“That sounds dangerously reasonable.”
“I hate it,” he mutters.
“I can tell.”
His mouth curves.Not fully, but enough.Just enough to make something warm and reckless unfurl beneath my ribs.
The alley light above us flickers.Once.Twice.Knox moves before I understand why.He is in front of me, his massive body shielding mine, one arm extended but not touching.A low rumble fills the alley.Deep and animal.The air thickens around him.
At the far end of the alley, something black flutters to the wet pavement.An envelope.
My blood turns cold, and Knox growls loudly.I step around him before he can stop me.
“Briana.”The warning is low.
“I see it.”
The envelope lies in a shallow puddle, dry despite the surrounding water.Black paper.Black wax.Same seal.
Circle.
Slash.
Three drops.
Knox reaches it first and crouches, lifting it carefully by the edge.His eyes are nearly black when he turns it over.My name is written across the front in red ink.
No.Not ink.I know the color of dried blood.
For a second, neither of us speaks.Then Knox opens it.Inside is a single card.He reads it, and the sound that leaves him is not human.I take the card from his hand before he can crush it.The message is written in the same blood-red script.
The girl we lost is invited home.
Knox turns toward the street, horns pushing beneath the skin of his forehead, rage rolling off him in waves strong enough to steal my breath.But I don’t look at the street.I look at the card.
