“I think it’s something you can survive,” I growl. “If you stay the hell away from the rest of this.”
Her eyes soften, but she doesn’t back down. “I’m not asking to be in this war, Rafe. I’m telling you that I already am. Roman’s not pulling punches. Mary didn’t come here for kicks. And you know damn well what Darius’s message means.”
“It means he wants to use you,” I snap.
“No,” she says. “It means he sees me.”
The words hit harder than I expect. I take a step toward her, hands clenched, fighting the growl in my throat.
“I didn’t bring you here for this,” I say. “I brought you here to protect you.”
“And you don’t get to decide that anymore,” she answers. “You think protection means distance, but it doesn’t. It means standing next to each other when the fight starts. Not hiding behind it.”
I close my eyes, just for a second. She’s right, but I hate it.
When I open them again, she’s closer. She takes my hand and places it over her chest. The warmth of her glow pulses under my palm, steady and alive.
“I’m already in this,” she whispers.
I don’t try to stop her.
23
KALEIGH
It’s barely past five when I hear the low, broken call. Not the kind of sound that comes from a regular animal. No rustling feathers or flapping wings. Just pain—soft, aching pain—dragging across the stillness of the courtyard.
Rafe’s still asleep, one arm heavy across my hips, breath warm against the back of my neck. I ease out from under him slowly, moving like if I’m too fast, I’ll wake something that should stay resting. The air outside is cool, almost damp, smelling of olive trees and the faint dust of the dry hills.
I don’t know what pulls me exactly. I just follow the ache in the air, like some old instinct has woken before my brain fully catches up. And then I see it.
Crushed near the broken fountain, body contorted, wings crooked in the stone basin like some creature dropped from the sky and forgot how to land. A falcon. Blood-matted feathers streaked black down one side, talons curling weakly into the cracked stone.
Only it’s not just a falcon.
There’s something more to the way its eyes shift when they land on me. Not animal. Not completely. The gold behind itspupils blinks once and holds. And I feel it—deep and instant—that this isn’t just a bird. This is someone.
A shifter. Half-shifted. Stuck.
I kneel slow, careful not to make the wrong move. The falcon jerks a little when I get close, flapping one wing feebly, but the other’s useless, bent out at a sick angle. There’s a deep gash across its belly, one leg twisted unnaturally under its own weight.
“You poor thing,” I whisper. “What happened to you?”
Its eyes flicker again. Something in them pleads. It’s not afraid of me. It's waiting.
I reach out with one hand, hovering just over the torn side where muscle pulses faintly under broken plumage. Warmth rises in my palm, not just body heat, something internal. Deep. A hum I’ve felt since the rooftop in Seville but never like this. This is stronger. Brighter. And not just reactive—it’s alive.
Behind me, I hear the door creak open. Bare feet on tile. Then Rafe’s low voice, tight with worry.
“Kaleigh? What the hell are you doing?”
I don’t answer. I’m focused. The heat in my hand starts to push outward, pulsing into the wound like light knows where it’s needed.
The falcon gasps—yes, gasps—and I feel the shift like a ripple under the surface. Its form pulses, feathers shifting as though unsure of which body to stay in. But I don’t let go. I keep my hand steady, keep the energy flowing, and the light in my palm ignites.
It’s golden. Not fire, not blinding. Just pure and steady, like sunrise through a windowpane.
The wound starts closing before my eyes. Bone grinds back into place. Feathers regrow in tight waves. The leg straightens, talons flexing. The light threads deeper, and I feel it—everynerve, every sinew, every cell mending, as if my hands were built for this.
