Phoebe sits cross-legged, oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder, hair twisted up in a messy knot that says “accidental heroine of epic fantasy.”
Jules has a blanket over her belly, one hand absently rubbing small circles where their baby kicks.
Me? I’ve got ink on my fingers and a knot in my stomach.
“Okay,” I mutter, flipping a page, “this one says the SoulTakers were once ordinary Demons. Some were even guardians of some kind? That doesn’t match anything Thorne told me.”
“It’s an older text,” Jules says, peering over at me with those pale gray eyes. “Before they turned. Before Idris twisted them.”
“Yeah, that creep has a real talent for that,” I grumble.
We fall into quiet again, the comfortable kind. Just three Jersey girls, apparently, combing through magical grimoires in a Demon castle in another realm.
Totally normal.
After a while, my eyes start to blur. Words swim. The fire’s warmth makes everything hazy at the edges.
That’s when I feel it.
The shift.
It starts as a tiny tug under my breastbone—like someone hooked a hot wire into my heart and gave it a careful pull. My breath stutters.
Then it sharpens.
Pain cuts through me, bright and sudden.
Not physical—not exactly.
More like fear given form.
Pressure. Heat.
“Ah—” The sound rips out of me before I can stop it.
“Delia?” Phoebe looks up immediately, book forgotten. “You okay?”
I open my mouth to say yes.
I don’t get the word out.
The tug yanks hard this time, and I double over, the book sliding from my lap.
“Delia!” Jules’s voice goes thin and high, full of alarm. She reaches across, grabbing my hand with one of hers and fumbling for Phoebe’s with the other. “What—are they okay?”
Their fingers lock around mine.
Warm, grounding.
I squeeze back, hard.
“I—I don’t know,” I choke out. “Something’s wrong. I feel it.”
Because it isn’t just pain.
It’s Thorne.
Wherever he is, whatever he’s doing—my bond is screaming.
