“—never seen that kind of power?—”
“—will she?—”
“She’ll wake up.” Theo’s voice, rough as gravel, breaking on the words. “She has to wake up.”
I’m here. I’m still here.
She tried to open her eyes. Her body refused to cooperate. Exhaustion pressed her down, held her under, wouldn’t let her surface no matter how hard she fought.
“Avine.” His hand found hers—calloused, trembling, gripping too tight. “You come back to me. Do you hear me? You come back.”
I’m trying.
“We’re not done. You don’t get to—” His voice cracked. Broke. Reformed into desperation. “Please. Please wake up.”
She wanted to. Gods, she wanted to.
But the darkness was so heavy, and she was so tired, and her body had given everything it had in that final burst of power.
Just a little longer. Let me rest a little longer.
The last thing she felt before unconsciousness dragged her under completely was his lips against her forehead. His tears on her skin.
His voice, barely a whisper: “I need you to stay.”
Avine dreamedof the sea again.
But this time, the calm waters held a thread of gold—pack magic, warm and steady, anchoring her to shore.
And somewhere above the waves, a wolf kept vigil.
Waiting for her to wake.
TWENTY-FOUR
THEO
She wouldn’t wake up.
Theo had been sitting in this chair for hours, watching the too-slow rise and fall of her breathing, counting the seconds between each exhale. The room was dim, lit only by Narla’s healing candles and the gray light filtering through rain-spattered windows. It smelled like herbs and magic and fear—his fear, sharp and acrid, bleeding into the air no matter how hard he tried to contain it.
Three hours since the attack. Four. The coven healers had arrived within minutes, their magic weaving through the ruined inn with practiced efficiency. They’d cleaned the blood from her face, stabilized whatever had torn inside her, wrapped her in blankets spelled for recovery. They’d done everything possible.
And still, she wouldn’t wake up.
His wolf was pacing inside his skull with the frantic energy of a caged animal.
Mate. The word was a snarl. Hurt. Fix it.
I can’t. The admission scraped raw against his insides. I don’t know how.
He’d carried her here himself after the constructs fell. Hadn’t trusted anyone else to do it, hadn’t been able to let go even whenthe healers asked him to step back. They’d worked around him eventually, casting their spells with his hand wrapped around hers, and no one had commented on the impropriety of the Alpha of the Vance Pack refusing to leave a witch’s bedside.
They’d seen his face. They’d known better than to try.
The witches had organizedthemselves with the efficiency of a military unit.
Theo had watched them move around each other for hours now, a choreography of worry and competence. They didn’t get in each other’s way. Didn’t argue about roles or territories. They slotted into place as naturally as breathing.
