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I want a mate who can stand up against it, even if I know no one really can.
Not even this male. Not even if he might be a master vampire over a thousand years old.
No one can survive against my voice in its pure, unadulterated form.
Not my parents.
Not my clan’s allies that I unintentionally killed.
Not my own sister. I can never tell her how much I love her. Not out loud. Not in the way I really want to.
And if this male truly is my fated mate, I want to be able to tell him my story.
Tell him my name.
Tell him what I want and how I want it.
Spirits, I hope this is real.
Heat pricks at the edges of my eyes and I refuse to let the tears come. I refuse to admit how badly I want a happily-ever-after of my own.
“I’m going to say the spell, witchling,” he said, relaxing his grip on me. “I can smell your fear, and I promise you I never want you to fear me.”
He presses a kiss to my cheek, as if assuring me that everything is going to be okay.
Then he says the words and my magic reacts.
I pull magic from the death plane. My voice is my medium, but I’m a witch just like any other. I react to the magic of nature, life, and death.
The words activate with every ingredient in this room.
The mugwort. The strips of bark and the rabbit pelts I have hanging out to dry.
When he reaches the last verse, I press the blade hard enough for dark, red blood to pool at the tip.
It seeps up the metal and I wait.
I wait.
I pray.
His blood touches my fingertips and sends me into his memory.
Closing my eyes, I throw my head back against his shoulder and drink it all in.
A man appears.
A book and a list of names.
My name.
Ishara Doyle.
“Thank you for responding to my call, Jasper Justi. I’ve heard a great deal about you.”
Jasper Justi.
That’s this male’s name.
