A peaceful rumble of thunder sounds far away.
“Stormcloud,” I murmur, the word curling against my tongue.
“Yes. You’ll be my stormcloud.”
I find a pencil on her desk. Pick it up. My fingers twitch. I don’t draw — not usually. But tonight, the idea feels right.
She can’t know I’m here. Not yet. I’m under strict orders. But I can leave a small piece of myself behind.
I sketch a cloud. Crooked. Ugly. Cracked through the middle by a jagged bolt.
I tear the page out and lay it on her dresser. A gift. A warning. A hello.
The mark on my wrist burns.
I hiss, biting my knuckle to keep from making noise. The air shimmers — and then his voice slides in.
“My Speaker.”
Ah, there it is. The collar tightening.
I roll my eyes at the inconvenient timing. “Master. How can I serve you?”
“You found her.”
Always watching. Always knowing.
I glance back at the sleeping girl. The soft rise and fall of her chest. The moonlight on her cheek.
“She’s quiet,” I say. “The kind that makes everything else stop screaming.”
Silence. Then —
“Be wary of quiet things, Maylo. They break loudest.”
The voice fades. The pain doesn’t.
I stare at my hand. The mark glows faintly green. A curse. My leash.
I can still hear her breathing.
The rain, steady.
“Goodnight, little stormcloud,” I whisper, and the grin creeps back. “Don’t let the monster’s bite. That’s my job.”
I walk to the hall and fade back into existence.
12
Thou Shalt Not Flirt with Doom
Arwen
The alarm on my phone blares again.
For the third morning in a row, I’m ripped away from what barely qualified as rest. I’m lucky that I made it back to my dorm room and nobody, bond or otherwise, disturbed me last night. The ache in my chest is still there, like a brand trying to burrow into my skin. The memories of the bond ceremony rush back in, and I sit up with a rush of adrenaline.
I go to reach for my phone, but my hand brushes against something unfamiliar—a folded note?Dramatic.
