Page 116

A twig snapped beneath Theo’s paw and he froze. Sal turned and his gaze found Theo immediately. They locked eyes, Theo stuck in place, unsure if he should turn and run. His body refused to move.

The man’s eyes widened, but he didn’t call out to his companions who were marching ahead, scaring away every animal in the area with their footsteps.

Theo had heard that before you died your life flashed before your eyes. But that wasn’t true.

There was only one thing that flashed before his eyes.

Phoebe.

Phoebe shrouded in golden light, Phoebe in bed, Phoebe laughing, Phoebe frowning at him until he forced her to crack a smile.

Phoebe, Phoebe, Phoebe.

That was it. The only part of his life that mattered. That’s what flashed before his eyes. Not battling with his brothers. Not the abuse from his father. Not even his packmates, or his friends, or (and he would never tell her this) his mother.

It was just one thing. The one person that made his life worth living.

His soulmate lingered in his vision as Sal raised his gun. His hands shook. Theo blew out a long slow breath, praying the man was a good shot. He was done with suffering. Sal aimed but he didn’t shoot. His gaze stayed locked with Theo’s and something in his expression wavered. For a minute, they were eye to eye, two creatures understanding each other. It was almost like Sal … recognized him? With a slight shake of his head, he lowered his gun.

He didn’t shoot.

Theo was alive.

Holy shit. He was alive.

Sal made a shooing gesture with his hands, before hurrying to catch up with his friends. Theo’s legs trembled beneath him. He was alive and nothing else mattered.

He was still hurt and so fucking embarrassed that she would do that to him. But all of that was suddenly so small compared to his need to see her, to hold her.

They’d both made mistakes. He was right when he’d said they’d hurt each other too many times. But maybe he’d been wrong about whether or not it was fixable. If they were fixable.

He damn sure needed to find out.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Phoebe was not well. She hadn’t felt this terrible since … well, since ever. She’d heard of it before. Of dryads becoming horribly ill if they were kept away from their groves for too long, but it had never happened to her.

And she was home, anyway. So, she should be fine. Perfectly fine.

But she wasn’t fine. She couldn’t deny it anymore. And she had nymphs dropping in on her all hours of the day trying to figure out what was wrong with her. She’d heard every theory.

Maybe it was a sign of the overall decline of the forest.

Maybe she’d been gone too long, and her body wasn’t reacclimatizing as quickly as it should.

Maybe she was getting old. (Rude).

And the most absurd theory of all: maybe it had something to do with that werewolf of hers.

Phoebe rolled over and buried her face under her pile of pillows, drowning out the chatter of women out in her kitchen. Word had traveled far and fast about her sickness. Knox was right: nymphs knew too damn much.

Couldn’t they just leave her to drown in her misery alone?

Another wave of nausea hit her, and she leaned over the side of the bed and heaved into the bucket someone had placed there for her. Maybe it wasn’t so bad that she had aunties checking in on her. If not for them and their well-placed bucket, the cute little throw rug she’d found at that flea market would be ruined.

Ugh. She flopped back into the pillows. She was weak and achy. It was like that time when one of her human boyfriends had had the flu. At the time she thought he was being awfully dramatic about the whole thing, but now she understood. She felt like she was dying.

Stupid werewolf.