I don’t understand what’s happening. The moment the nausea hits me, I know it’s her, my little banshee. I can feel her distress as though it’s stitched into my bones, rattling through my veins. Every instinct, every ancient part of me, is screaming the same thing. Go to her, protect her. It’s as if a cord is pulling taut inside me, stretching until it feels like it might snap. The air itself tastes of her anguish, sharp and metallic on my tongue.
For reasons I can’t explain, hell, maybe I don’t even want to. I snap my fingers, and in an instant, the world around me dissolves. My body acts before my mind can catch up, pulled by something raw and undeniable.
The world snaps back into focus, and I find myself in her living room. The faint sobs coming from her bathroom prick at my ears like nails on glass. I pause, watching the hallway, debating if I should just turn around and leave her to it. No… something in me refuses. Call it curiosity, call it whatever the hell you want,because it pulls me toward this banshee’s mess.
With a reluctant force, I creep down the hallway, each one of her sobs slicing through me as I push the door open without knocking. The sight guts me. She’s crumpled on the cold tile floor, a towel hanging loose around her as though she forgot it was even there. Her silver hair clings to her damp face and shoulders, trembling with the force of her sobs.
Steam curls the air, fogging the mirror above the sink. Through the haze, I can see red writing scrawled across the glass as if it were carved into the surface with anger and blood. For a moment I just stand there, frozen. The banshee who bends the dead to her whispers, reduced to this. My chest tightens, that invisible thread yanking cruelly at me.
Why, I don't know… but I take a step closer, and the sound of the floor cracking under the weight of my hooves makes her flinch, as if even the smallest noise might shatter her completely. I almost turn away, she wouldn't want me here. The sound of her broken sobs… it cuts deeper than I’d like to admit.
“Bloody hell,” I mutter under my breath, crouching down beside her. “Pull yourself together, would you?” My tone is sharper than it should be.
My claws betray me as they reach out, steadying her when her body shudders violently. She jerks, wiping at her face, glaring at me as though she’s ready to bite my head off. “Go away!”
I snort. “And miss this charming display? Never.”
I rock her slowly, almost against my will, and when her sobs start to ease, I realize my grip hasn’t loosened, I can’t bring myself to let her go.
“Christ,” I mutter. “You look like death warmed over and that’s saying something, considering the company I keep.”
She flinches, and tries to hide her face, but I catch her chin and force her eyes up. They’re red and raw, and for a moment, I almost soften,almost.
“Don’t bother hiding, banshee,” I say with a crooked grin. “I already know you’re a mess. Nothing new there.” I roll my eyes at the ceiling. “Brilliant. Now I look like a sympathetic fool. Just what I needed for my reputation.”
She lets out a weak laugh through her tears, which only makes me snort. “There it is. Proof you’re not completely broken. Pathetic, yes. But not broken.”
My claws run slow circles on her back, steadying her even as I mutter, “Don’t get used to this, alright? I’m only here because there would be no one else in this world that could stomach you like this and because I’ve got nothing better to do.”
Níl mé ag ligean síos. Níor fós. (I don’t let go. Not yet.)
Once she pulls herself together, her voice is still trembling but steady, she tries to explain what happened. Every word she utters only sharpens the knot in my gut. I know, without ashadow of doubt, that this was Saoirse’s doing. It’s in the chaos she left behind, that has her name carved into it.
A feral heat creeps through my veins, coiling around my chest as if it’s a living thing. I want to strike, to tear into Saoirse, but my eyes stay locked on my banshee. She doesn’t need my anger right now, she needs something else. Something I’m not sure I can give.
A growl vibrates low in my chest, a warning to the world. Her small, trembling form wrapped in that thin towel ignites something else in me. A feral, possessive urge to guard her, to make sure nothing else touches her.
Without another thought, my arms tighten around her, and in an instant, my claws click and the world blurs. When the motion stops, we’re no longer in her small bathroom but on my shadowed wing of the castle, cold stone walls pressing in around us. The silence is thick, almost suffocating, broken only by the rapid thump of her heart.
I need to keep her close, every instinct in me screams to shield her. The air tastes of iron and old magic, still none of that matters. All that exists is her trembling form pressed against me, and the feral need in my chest that refuses to be tamed. Even here, in the cold stone halls of my domain, I can feel her fragility, and the pull she has on me. It’s intoxicating. Every nerve, every muscle in my body hums with the same dark, unrelenting hunger, to protect.
I don’t know what came over me, breaking down like that. Maybe everything came crashing down on me, all at once, suffocating me until I couldn’t hold it in anymore. What I didn’t expect was that Thorne came to my aid. What the actual fuck? First, the ugly red bastard kidnaps me, and now he decides to swoop in and play saviour. None of it makes sense. I can’t figure out the logic or if there even is any.
Now I’m sitting in this musty, dark room, clutching nothing but a damp towel. The air is stale and soaked with the stench of rot, heavier than death itself. Every breath I take clings to the back of my throat as if it’s mildew. Thorne vanished not long after dragging me here, muttering something under his breath, words I couldn’t quite catch. Whatever it was, it wasn’t meant for me. Now I’m left here, alone, with the walls closing in and the shadows pressing closer, as if they’re listening.
The sound of heavy footsteps grips my attention, rattlingthrough the stone like a warning. My heart stutters, then kicks into a frantic rhythm. Wrapped in only a towel I feel utterly exposed, useless. I edge back to the stone wall. The old chair in the corner becomes a shield of sorts, its splintered wood offering a fragile sense of protection. I hold my breath, straining to catch even the faintest glimpse of whoever is coming.
Then they appear. Scaled crimson legs stride into the room. Relief collides with the dread in my chest. It’s just Thorne. But I don’t step out. I stay hidden, watching. He doesn’t search for me. He doesn’t even glance around. Instead, he stomps to the chair and drops a massive pile of clothes onto it with a sharp huff, then turns on his heels, leaving without a word. Confusion rushes through me, twisting my gut. What the hell is he doing?
My legs move before my brain catches up. “Thorne!” My voice cuts through the silence, sharper than I intended. He halts just outside the doorway, his shoulders stiffening before he turns back. That infuriating smirk already spread across his face, as if he’d been waiting for me to bite.
“What?” he drawls, flicking a clawed hand toward the chair. “Did you want to sit around stinking of distress in a towel? I thought you’d prefer clothing. My mistake.”
My confusion curdles into anger. “Why?” I demand, taking a step toward him. “Why would you bother? You’re the last person I’d expect to… help me.” The words feel wrong on my tongue.
For a heartbeat, his eyes flash with something darker, something feral, before his smirk returns. “Don’t flatter yourself, banshee.Dressing you isn’t for your comfort, it’s so I don’t have to look at you falling apart half naked.”
My eyes noarrow, heat rising in my chest. “You’re an asshole.”
