Creed presses forward, speaking low. “I can see right through you, you know. I will not allow this to continue. You aredonemanipulating my brother. Those pretty little claws you’ve got sunk into his flesh? I’m going to cut them at the knuckle.”
White-hot anger flashes through me at an alarming rate, his words detonating inside me in a way that feels like a direct threat to my life.
Shut him up.
Gut him.
End him.
Those words whirl through my mind, and heat burns at my fingertips, my limbs shaking.
It’s a bit of an irrational response, but it’s strong.
Just as my conscience decides to listen to the foreign whispers in my mind, Knight’s words reach through the noise, and I tense.
“Speak of the devil,” he mumbles like he’s bored.
My brows furrow and I follow his gaze toward the door.
Legend strides toward us like he owns each bit of space between his steps, shoulders loose, expression cut from the same cool arrogance he wears like a weapon.
But something is wrong.
He closes the distance, stopping in front of me, close enough that the room tilts a little with how solid he stands. His shadow falls over mine the same way it always does, swallowing the light between us, but it’s like stepping toward a fire only to find the heat missing.
“Hello, little monster,” he purrs, but it doesn’t feel like a basilisk’s tongue tasting my spine like I’ve gotten used to.
I narrow my eyes the tiniest bit. “What’s wrong with you?”
His head tilts, a faint rise in one brow, and a ghost of amusement curves his mouth. “I haven’t touched you in too long, that’s all,” he says softly. “Come here,” he says, even though he is already right in front of me.
My eyes narrow further.
He reaches out, thumb tracing the edge of my mouth in a slow, claiming sweep. He leans closer, breath touching my cheek. “You feel that?” he whispers. “Our bond is starved, mate. I need you.”
His mouth dips toward mine, slow and deliberate, as if expecting me to break open with longing.
And I let him.
I tilt my face up, letting him close the last inch, letting my lips brush his, soft at first. A sigh slips from me despite the simmer under my skin that has nothing to do with desire and everything to do with the violence humming quietly in my blood. I can almost taste his surprise when I press a little closer, as if I’m giving in, as if I’m falling for it.
Then he stills.
A sudden, jarring stillness, like every part of him just froze mid-step.
His eyes open slowly in a flicker of disbelief, then widen with recognition, but it’s the faint shiver that betrays him.
He looks down.
I follow his gaze.
A knife hangs in the air between us—my knife—hovering at his throat, the tip pressed just enough to break skin. A bead of crimson gathers, then slides down the sharp line of his neck.
Except…I didn’t call it.
I didn’t reach for it.
I didn’t even think the command.
