But it sounds wrong. Too warm. Like a memory trying to become real.
It slips away.
His fingers brush my jaw, tilting my face up to meet his gaze.
“You’re exquisite,” he says, and it sounds like worship and possession all at once.
His thumb traces my lower lip, and the warmth flares again.
The sound that escapes me—half gasp, half moan—I don’t recognize it.
His smile sharpens.
“See?” His voice drops lower, intimate. “Even your magic knows who you belong to.”
The words settle into my bones like truth.
Because he’s right. Isn’t he?
The hunger. The pull. The way I can’t stop wanting him even when I know I should.
That’s all him. All his influence threading through me until I can’t tell where I end and he begins.
Even this warmth—this foreign pulse in my chest—must be another thread he’s woven. Another way he’s claimed me.
His hand slides from my jaw to my throat, not squeezing, just resting there. Possessive.
“The Council is preparing to meet,” he says, his voice steady and rhythmic. Each word designed to drown thought. “They believe you’re lost. That the sanctuary failed.”
My breath catches. The sanctuary. The guys.
Wes’s quiet voice whispers through my mind:“Beautiful.”
It hurts to hear. Hurts worse when it fades.
“They’ve moved on, little queen.” His thumb strokes once across my pulse. “Convinced themselves you made your choice.”
The words twist like knives.
“But I stayed.” His eyes lock on mine. “I’m the only one who knows what you really need. The only one who can make you feel what you deserve.”
Each sentence pulls me back under, unraveling whatever fragile thread of independence I almost regained.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe they did give up.
Stellan’s voice drifts through, elegant and precise:“Darling.”
The word aches. I reach for it desperately, but it dissolves like mist.
Theo’s voice follows, certain and gentle:“We see you, Bree.”
But they don’t. Not anymore.
Maybe I’m only worth something when I’m broken enough to need him.
The warmth pulses weakly, like protest. I barely feel it beneath the weight of his words.
His hand moves from my throat to my hair, fingers tangling gently. Possessively.
