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When Wilson lost his family, he knew he would never be the same, and he hasn't. He's spent his time alone, lost, and wishing for something better. All of his energy goes into protecting the clan and planning to take down Lucky once and for all.
Reece is a broken man. He was stolen from his life, from his friends, from his job, and he's never really been the same. Months with Fablestone have done little to make him feel like a normal shifter. That is, until she comes.
Sabrina is something special, something magical, something unique, and she just might hold the secret to healing both Wilson and Reece.
With her help, they might be able to take down Lucky and stop the evil that threatens the future of shifters, but more importantly, she just might be their mate.
Prologue
From the end of DRAGON’S WHISPER.
Reece
SABRINA SPEAKS TO ME like I’m important.
Like I have value.
She doesn’t look at me like I’m damaged or broken. She doesn’t act like I have some disease I’m going to give her. Besides, the only disease I’ve ever carried is something that only affects shifters, apparently.
Not that this knowledge makes me feel any better.
“Talk to me about that day,” she says.
“We’ve already talked about this, Sabrina.”
“Humor me.” She crosses her legs and leans back a little, giving me that look I know so well. Shrinks, no matter how nice, are kind of all the same. They all think they’re going to be the ones to have this wonderful breakthrough about your life. They all think they’re going to be the ones who are able to change you, to fix you.
I don’t think she’s going to be able to do it.
I think I’m too far past saving.
“Ordinary day,” I begin, willing to do what she wants. If it means we get to keep talking and I don’t have to sit alone, I’ll do whatever she asks. Sabrina might report back to Cameron and Wilson to tell them what I say, but I don’t really care. I just need something to quench the never-ending loneliness that hammers at my soul one day at a time.
“What was the weather like?” She asks.
“Sunny,” I close my eyes, trying to remember. “And it smelled like burning leaves. Like someone had raked their lawn and was burning everything they gathered.”
“Did
you like the smell?”
“It was comforting,” I tell her. “I noticed it because I was walking to the bus stop.”
“Do you usually take the bus to work?”
She asks this like it’s still something I do, like when this session is over, I’m going to get to go back to my ordinary life. We both know that’s not true. We both know I’m never going back. Still, I appreciate her question because it makes me feel validated on some level. It reminds me that I’m not alone.
“I always take the bus,” I tell her.
“Who knows your daily routine?” Her voice is calm and slow, methodical. I know what she’s doing. She’s trying to get me to give her as much information as I can without losing sight of what matters. She needs to keep me talking so that I tell her as much as I can about the day I was taken.
Part of me is terrified and nervous.
I don’t want to talk about that day.
I don’t want to think about it.
That day was awful and terrifying. That day broke me. It was the first time I didn’t feel strong or masculine or brave. That day made me feel weaker than I’ve ever felt in my life and I never want to feel that weakness again.
