But like someone is gripping a live wire and refusing to let go.
They are careful.
Impossibly careful.
My back presses against a chest that feels like solid stone wrapped in heat.
My head lolls sideways, and my forehead bumps against something hard and smooth and curved.
Bone.
A spur.
My brain short-circuits.
“Hi,” I whisper weakly to nobody in particular.
The thing makes a sound.
Not a roar.
Not a growl.
It’s a sharp, broken inhale, like it just took a breath it didn’t know it was allowed to take.
The fire crackles louder behind us.
The ceiling groans again, deeper, angrier.
I should be terrified.
I am, technically.
But something else is happening too, something I absolutely do not have a framework for.
There is a pressure building inside my chest.
Low.
Dense.
Directional.
The same place my heart lives.
It feels like something inside me is waking up and stretching and turning toward the thing holding me like it recognizes it.
My breath hitches.
“What the fuck,” I whisper.
The pressure answers.
It pulses once.
Hard.
The thing stiffens.
