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His magic rises to touch back, a breath of warm wind against my cheek, a cool whisper in my ear, a feathery touch on my lips.
“Sindri,”I call his name without speaking. He’s so still under my palm, where our bodies are pressed together. “Sin. Take down your magic. Contain it. Come back to us.”
Behind my lids, I see a little boy running, calling for his mother.
I see a little girl crying for her mom.
We’re one, I tell him in my mind, even though I’m not sure why I think that little girl is me—the girl I saw in his magical mirror.We have lost so much from the start, but we won’t give up.
And through the bond I see more images—a boy in chains, a boy covered in blood, a boy screaming—and I know they are coming from the other boys, and I cry for them. Tears roll down my cheeks, hot, scalding.
Sindri.
If this isn’t magic, then what is it?
And if those are their memories from their childhood, how can I help them? How can I save them when they are so broken, so weighed down by loss and sorrow?
Sindri stirs faintly, his arm that’s resting over my waist shifting. His hand spasms against my hip.
Then his fingers splay—over my ass.
I jerk and open my eyes.
He grins a little, a crooked, lopsided grin, his eyes heavy-lidded, barely open to slits.
“You’re awake,” I whisper.
“You called me back,” he rasps.
“But the wings…” I can still see them, folded on the bed, the other boys nestled between them. “You have to shift back, Sin.”
“Can’t. Tired.”
He doesn’t have the strength to shift back right now. I glance over his shoulder at Ashton who looks pensive. Emrys is avoiding my gaze but Jason has his hand on one of the feathery wings, stroking it, a child-like wonder in his eyes.
“Are there more changes on your body?” I ask Sindri whose eyes have drifted shut again. At the question, he blinks.
“I don’t know. I think the wings came out first.”
“Why would that be?” Ashton mutters.
“I’ve felt them,” Sindri whispers. “For weeks now. Trying to push out of my back.”
“It must have hurt,” I breathe.
He doesn’t reply but for a fleeting second, I think I see a flash of misery in his eyes, a denser darkness, before the mask comes back.
I hate that he wears a mask even now, with all of us around him. “How can I help?” I whisper.
As if in reply, his gaze dips to my lace-covered breasts and stays. The stars in the depths of his eyes seem to swirl, his pupils dilating, and at least this I can read. This desire, this need.
Then he says, “I got you some clothes.”
The moment is broken. I stare at him and a snicker escapes me. “Really?”
“What?” He frowns.
“Looks like we all had the same idea,” Jason mutters.
