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“Fuck.”

Shadow slams into the barn door, growling, frantic.

Malek steps back from me. Not far. Just far enough.

The space between us goes cold and razor-thin.

“Behind me.” His voice is quiet now. All command. No heat.Steel wrapped in restraint.

He doesn’t look at my mouth again. Doesn’t reach for the knife. Doesn’t touch me.

That’s the boundary.

I realize then—too late, too sharp—that my hand is still curled like it’s holding his throat.

I don’t uncurl it.

Shadow snarls again.

Malek grips my wrist—firm, controlled, nothing like before—and pulls me one step behind him.

“Selah,” he says, and my name sounds like a line he won’t let me cross. “Now.”

I move behind him. The heat of the kiss still burns on my mouth.

In front of me, the world has shifted.

And I know—deep in my bones—that whatever I woke up in myself tonight isn’t going back to sleep.

Not for him.

Not for the Iron Gospel.

Not ever.

XXIV

The New Religion

We hit the edge of my farm hard enough that my lungs feel flayed, every breath scraping like I’ve swallowed frost and wire, and for half a second I’m not sure if I’m running toward danger or memory or some third thing that learned how to wear both faces at once. Shadow skids to a stop so abruptly I nearly slam into his flank, my boots slipping on rime-slick grass, heart hammering in my ears like it’s trying to outrun me.

His growl rolls out low and vibrating—not sharp enough to be a warning, not frantic enough to be fear. Recognition. That’s the sound. Something old in him waking up, something that knows exactly what it’s smelling and doesn’t need time to decide how to feel about it.

My stomach drops before my mind catches up.

Malek’s hand snaps out, palm firm against my chest, stopping me short enough that the breath punches loose from my lungs. His body goes rigid in front of me, shoulders locking, spine drawing taut, his head lifting in that precise, terrible way that tells me he’s already chosen what happens next—even if I haven’t seen it yet.

I follow his gaze to the property line.

Two figures stand in the frost.

One upright. Solid. Grounded like the land itself carved him out of bone and stubbornness. Tall as Malek, broad through the shoulders, freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose like a detail the world forgot to sand away. He doesn’t move when we stop. Doesn’t reach for a weapon. Doesn’t step back either.

I don’t like that.

Shadow pads toward him anyway, tail wagging, posture loose, utterly unconcerned, and my fingers tighten reflexively around nothing at all. Shadow doesn’t trust easily. He doesn’t wag at strangers. He sure as hell doesn’t wag at men who smell like violence.

My gaze drifts to Malek before I can stop it, searching for the shift I’ve learned to expect from him—the tightening in his shoulders, the slight turn of his head, the way violence usually wakes in him before anyone else notices there’s a reason for it.