Time slows. Not poetically—practically. My senses sharpen the way they do before a fight.
Lyanna’s breath catches. Her fingers tighten on her arms where they’re crossed.
And Dane ...
He stands with his back to me, those broad shoulders rigid with tension. Even from behind, I can read the fury in every line of his frame. When he turns slightly, I catch his profile—the sharp angle of his jaw, the way his steel-gray eyes have gone almost black.
His ash-brown hair is disheveled like he’s been running his hands through it. Combat boots planted wide, hands loose at his sides in that deceptively relaxed stance that means he’s ready for violence.
His jaw locks. A muscle twitches beneath his skin. His eyes darken, the fury shifting to something worse. Pity.
I let the door click shut behind me.
The sound cuts Rafe off mid-sentence. Three heads snap toward me.
No one speaks. Their heartbeats fill the silence—Lyanna’s quick and light, Rafe’s unnaturally slow, and Dane’s hard and steady.
I step deeper into the room. My boots make no sound on the wooden floor. I’ve learned to move silently since childhood. Not a natural skill—a taught one. A programmed one.
Pieces click into place. Born half-fae, half-wolf. Raised where I was. Talents that never quite made sense. The pull toward certain places, certain energies.
I count my own pulse. One. Two. Three.
“How long?” I ask Rafe. My voice doesn’t shake. “How long has he been arranging this?”
Rafe studies me, no apology in his gaze. “Since before you were born.”
Four. Five. Six.
I turn to Dane. His expression has shifted from pity to something harder. He’s recalibrating everything he knows about me.
Seven. Eight.
“The boundary ruptures,” I say, pulling the pieces together. “They’re not random. They’re a net.”
Rafe nods. “A containment grid. Powered by your own energy signature.”
Nine. Ten.
I walk to the map on the table. Seven marked breach points. Perfect hexagonal pattern. Me at the center.
“He can’t hold me if I know the cage exists,” I say.
Lyanna steps forward. “It’s not about holding you, Nova. It’s about using you as a conduit.”
“For what?”
“You don’t build a net like that unless you plan to drag something through it,” Dane says, finally breaking his silence.
His eyes find mine across the table. No trace of what happened between us minutes ago. No heat. No vulnerability. Just tactical assessment of a new threat.
Me.
Eleven. Twelve.
I don’t look away. I hold his gaze while I process. My father. The magic in my blood. The breaches following me. The pull I’ve felt toward certain places. All of it—orchestrated.
Thirteen.
