He opened his eyes. She was sitting cross-legged on the bed, watching him with an expression of pure fascination. Not terror.Not disgust. Just that same boundless curiosity that seemed to define her.
“When Vultor feel... strongly,” he said carefully, “our beast comes closer to the surface. We begin to shift. Partially, at first. Our senses sharpen. Our instincts intensify.” He held up one hand, and even in the dim light, he could see the way his claws had started to emerge. “If I lose control completely, I’ll transform.”
“Transform into what?”
“My beast form. It’s—” He struggled for words. “Larger. More powerful. Less... civilized.”
“Can you show me?”
He stared at her, stunned, certain he’d misheard.
“You want me to?—”
“Transform. Yes.” She was practically vibrating with excitement now, eyes shining. “I’ve read about shapeshifters in some of the old texts, but I’ve never seen one. Never even imagined I would. Please, Baylin. I want to see.”
“It’s not...” He shook his head, trying to clear it. “You don’t understand. The beast isn’t like the male. It’s more instinct than reason. Stronger. More dangerous.”
“Would you hurt me?”
The simple question cut straight through all his careful warnings to the heart of the matter.
“No,” he admitted. The beast snarled in agreement—a surge of protective fury at the mere suggestion. “Never. I would never hurt you.”
“Then what’s the danger?”
He didn’t have an answer for that. Or rather, he had too many answers, none of which would make sense to a female who had spent her entire life alone in a tower. How could he explain that the danger wasn’t physical? That it was the danger of wanting too much, too fast? The danger of his beast deciding she was his and never letting go?
“Please,” she said softly. “I want to know all of you. Not just the parts you think are safe.”
Something cracked inside him.
He’d spent so long keeping his beast carefully leashed because that was what was what was required. Outside of his pack, a Vultor warrior was only useful if he could suppress the wildness that made them what they were.
Liora wasn’t asking him to be useful. She was asking him to be real.
“All right,” he heard himself say. “But you should know that the beast might not be... gentle. It might be more intense than you expect.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“I know.” And that was the problem. She should have been afraid. The fact that she wasn’t made his beast purr with satisfaction.
Brave mate. Strong mate. Ours.
He silenced that thought viciously and stepped back from the bed, giving himself room.
The shift was always painful.
Not the kind of pain that left marks, but a deep, cellular agony as bone and muscle and sinew reshaped themselves into something new. He’d learned to accept it and let the pain wash over him without fighting it.
Tonight, with her watching, the pain seemed almost secondary.
He closed his eyes and released the chains he’d kept wrapped around his beast for so long. The transformation swept over him like a wave—dark silver fur rippling across his skin, his spine curving, his limbs lengthening and strengthening. His clothes fell away as his body expanded, and he heard her sharp intake of breath.
When he opened his eyes again, the world was different.
Colors were muted but the details were sharper. Sounds were crisp and clear—the rustle of fabric as she shifted, the distant hum of the tower’s systems, the frantic scrabbling of tiny claws against stone as something fled the room.
Pip. The little glider had been sleeping next to her. Now it was racing for cover, chittering in terror as it scrambled up the wall and disappeared through a ventilation grate.
