The bruises on her side bloomed like petals of some cruel flower, purple and marbled with red, angling from her ass to where her hip curved. There were scratches, too. Not deep, but fresh and long, like she’d been dragged across gravel by something made to hurt.
She twisted to see, her eyes going wide. “Damn.”
“You didn’t feel anything?”
“Not really. I do now, but no. No real pain. This is so weird.”
Before he could say anything more, a sound ripped through the night outside. An inhuman, raw, long, pained scream that cut through the darkness like a blade through butter.
They froze.
She looked at him.
He looked at her.
Then they both bolted to the nearest window.
Nothing. Just the eerie stillness of the street and the dark curve of trees beyond.
Hunter could’ve phased out, could’ve shot straight to the sound, but one look at her and that was out of the question. No way was he leaving her alone. Not now. Not with bruises still bloomingfresh in his mind and on her skin. Not with whatever-the-fuck humming through the seams of the world.
Another second passed, and then sirens came. Wailing in the distance, growing louder, covering that scream.
“I need to talk to Dorian,” he muttered, but even as he turned–
The bond stuttered.
Then went quiet.
Not severed or gone, but flat in the worst possible way.
His eyes snapped to her.
Daphne was standing at the kitchen island, both hands planted on the counter, her body locked tight. Her eyes stared into a void only she could see. Her lips moved, though no words followed, her breath coming too slow.
“Daphne?”
No reaction.
He crossed to her in two strides, heart hammering against his ribs like it wanted out. “Daphne, sweetheart?” He cupped her face gently, trying to turn her toward him.
Nothing.
Her skin was warm, but her mind was silent. Until–
“Whispers in the marrow,” she chanted, low, in a soft voice. “Can’t bleed. Can’t bleed.”
“Fuck,” he whispered, ice crawling through his veins.
Panic clawed up his throat, the very human terror of watching the person you love slip out of reach. He turned to fog instantly, slipping into her subconscious again. And again it was clean. Pristine. A mind emptied of presence. Not even shadows to make it more alive. Just a vacuum. Soulless.
Hunter reformed in the kitchen with a hiss, hands shaking. He tried to shake her shoulders, first gently, then harder. “Daphne! Baby, please.”
Still no response. Only the faint murmur of her voice, soft and toneless, repeating those words over and over. “Whispers in the marrow. Can’t bleed. Can’t bleed.”
Her phone buzzed on the counter. He glanced at it and saw Deputy Harper’s face.
He answered, because it was worryingly fitting that the deputy would call her now. “Yes?”
