Chapter 1
ROWAN
When I wake, the world is wrong. The air’s too still, the light too dim, and the silence presses against my skull like cotton soaked in ice. My pulse echoes in my ears—steady, human—and that’s the first sign I know something’s off.
Wolf isn’t here.
The bond that used to hum in the back of my mind is dead quiet, like someone unplugged half my soul.
But that’s not all. Flashes flicker behind my eyelids. Blinding images, the metallic scent of blood, and the crackle of raw magic tearing through the air. The horror I left behind. The devastation I caused.
The cowardice of giving in to an escape the second it was offered.
My eyes pinch painfully as I remember the magical influence. I hadn’t even tried to fight it.
The battle had been chaos—gruesome and hopeless—and I’d done what I thought was right.But how many people did I hurt? How many didn’t walk away because of me?
Cade’s face haunts my mind. His look of utter confusion and even betrayal. Then the memory of a cold, steady hand encouraging me to leave behind the blood-soaked field.
My power had torn loose, wild and consuming. An energy I still don’t understand, but the cloaked stranger promised to give me relief, and I hope with that, answers.
Maybe even redemption.
But now, he’s nowhere in sight.
I’m on a bed that feels like a cloud made of guilt and expensive fabric. The sheets are soft enough to drown in. The walls are carved from black stone lined with thin streaks of silver, pulsing faintly beneath the torchlight like veins under skin.
I sit up, swinging my legs over the edge of the mattress. There are no windows. No breeze. No scent of life. Just shadows and the faint thrum of power vibrating in the bones of this place.
For a heartbeat, I wonder if there’s even a door.
I should panic. Any sane person would. But my senses still feel muted, like someone had dimmed the volume of the world for me. Maybe it’s the aftermath of using my power. Maybe it’s the influence of the stranger. Maybe it’s the silence left behind by Wolf’s absence.
Maybe it’s all of the above. Either way, I’m not alright.
I give myself a once-over, frowning at the change in my attire. Not only have I been dressed in cream silk pajama pants with a matching top, but I’m clean from the blood and dirt I know were covering me before. And whileI’m sure my hair has been washed, it’s still tangled from sleep.
There’s a twisting unease in my stomach as I wonder who took care of those tasks. One that intensifies when the wall in front of me begins to glow briefly.
A door I swear wasn’t there moments ago reveals itself, gliding soundlessly. My body freezes, every instinct screaming at me to move, but I can’t.
“It’s good to see you awake, Rowan.”
The voice is smooth, measured, and practiced. He steps inside like he owns gravity. I can’t be positive this is the same person who offered me this escape, but my instincts say it is.
He’s dressed in varying shades of black and gray, the sleeves of his button-up shirt rolled to the forearm, silver embroidery catching the light as he moves, matching the faint streaks in his perfectly combed, obsidian hair. Everything about him says control. His darkened silver gaze skims over me like a scalpel, precise and impersonal, before landing on my face.
“I’m Malrik Vane.” He stops in front of me, like he’s waiting for me to acknowledge his existence, but I have no clue who this guy is, outside of assuming he’s the cloaked man who brought me here.
His stare is blank, making his face seem like it’s been carved from the very stone this room is made of. I shudder. He doesn’t appear to be a monster. Monsters at least have the decency to look the part, which I think may make Malrik Vane worse.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, hands clasped loosely before him, the picture of polite concern.
I rub a palm over my chest, grounding myself in the rhythm of my heartbeat. “Like I died and haven’t quite come back to life this time.”
His smile is faint, but his eyes sharpen with interest. “You’re not someone who dies easily, Rowan Prescott. That’s what makes you interesting.”
“Interesting?” I stand, hoping to even the field, but he’s easily a foot taller. “How so?”
