“Please—” she whispers.
A tremor runs through me—not fear, something deeper. I smell smoke and silver, feel the ghost of her breath against my skin even though I’m not there. A sound echoes through the vision—soft, wordless, unmistakably hers.
The vision shatters.
Nausea hits first—sharp and immediate, crawling up my throat. Then the heat. My body is responding, arousal and revulsion tangled so tightly I can’t separate them. The room spins as I stumble backward, and strong hands catch my shoulders before I hit the floor.
“Easy.” Thane’s voice. Cold and controlled. “I’ve got you.”
I try to focus. The training hall comes back in pieces—polished wood floors, afternoon light streaming through high windows, thedistant sound of Rhett’s voice still explaining something about flame control.
My body is shaking. I’m hard.
Disgusted with myself.
“Vision?” Stellan’s voice, quiet enough that only Thane and I can hear.
I nod once, not trusting my voice yet.
Thane’s grip on my shoulder tightens briefly, then releases. “Can you walk?”
Another nod.
“Come on.” He guides me toward the far corner of the hall—away from Rhett’s demonstration, away from the refugees, into shadow where we won’t be overheard.
Stellan follows, moving with that elegant silence of his.
I catch Wes watching us from across the room. His eyes are wary, tracking our movement. He knows something happened, but he’s too consumed with his own unfulfilled hunger to press.
And there—padding through the far door—Gray in his wolf form. White fur, massive, surrounded by other shifters. They’re laughing at something, the wolves play-fighting while the humans watch. It’s almost cute, seeing Gray like this. Relaxed. Part of a pack.
He doesn’t notice us slip away.
None of them do, not really.
Thane positions himself between me and the rest of the hall, blocking their view. Stellan leans against the wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
“What did you see?” Thane asks quietly.
I force myself to breathe. To organize thoughts that feel scattered and wrong.
“A mirror,” I manage. My voice sounds wrecked. “Black iron. Ornate.”
“Where?” Stellan asks.
“I don’t know. Stone floors. Obsidian, maybe. Silver fire on the walls.”
Thane goes very still. I feel it—the sudden tension, the way his breathing stops for just a moment.
“She was wearing dark silk,” I continue, the words tasting like ash. “Off-shoulder. Black. She’d never—she wouldn’t choose that.”
“What else?” Stellan’s tone is careful now. Too careful.
“Marks on her wrists.” I swallow hard. “Shadow marks, I think. Circling like bracelets. They moved. Pulsed once, like a heartbeat. I don’t know what they are.”
Silence. The kind that feels heavier than sound.
“Was she alone?” Thane’s voice has dropped lower. Dangerous.
