Se connecterFraserNaomi did not bring an appropriate tithe this time. The book she threw in my face doesn’t count, and I refuse to let it. She walks in and out of life doing, and saying, exactly what she wants without recourse, and one day that attitude and overconfidence is going to get her killed. Like now, bundled against the bitter cold and refusing to listen to a Goddess-damned thing I say, she turns to me at the cave mouth, waves, and disappears with Wren and his closest men in their fox forms at her side. I chew my lower lip, shaking my head against their idiocy. I did tell them–all eight of those fools–that traveling into the lower valley today is unnecessary and stupid, but foxes are notorious for thinking with their pea-brained senses, and Naomi hates the word no. She wanted to see where they’re building their den. Wren and his flock are just happy to have something to do as a brutal winter drags into early spring. I tug my cloak closer and pull up my hood, following despite the fa
NaomiI don’t move. I can’t. The pressure on my throat isn’t hard enough to cut off my air supply, but it’s still heavy, still making it very clear to my agitated senses that Fraser can snap my neck in an instant, so I lie here, prone, waiting for him to take his shot. He doesn’t say something along the lines of, “Back so soon, Fireheart?”He doesn’t say anything at all. He just postures over me, kneeling, braced on the floor on his knees. His golden eyes search mine with an intensity I can taste, and it tastes like fear. “You lied to me,” I rasp. I expected to be angry, to spew venom and wrath, but my voice breaks, and his eyes darken to polished bronze. “You’ve been lying to me this entire time.”“I haven’t lied.”“You’ve purposefully withheld the truth. You knew what I was the second you saw me for the first time. You knew this entire time that I’m a Firestone witch, and you and I were linked. You fucking monster. You–you virgin stealing, filthy, monstrous–”“I’m a what?” The pr
NaomiI normally wouldn’t be caught dead in rubber boots, but desperate times call for desperate measures, and I’ll be damned if my questions aren’t answered tonight. I swear on the Goddess I’ll go berserk, and when I step into the archives in Veiled Valley, tucked high above the rolling, wet fog, the slight damp chill causes my skin to steam. I am that angry. One day, Goddess willing, Fraser will decide to finally stretch his wings and immediately get struck by lightning. Or, better yet, his terrible eyesight will cause him to fly directly into a mountain. He’d deserve both. He lied to me and strung me along until I found out the damning truth myself. Now, he won’t answer any question I have. It’s bullshit. It’s unfair. I slam the front doors of the archives so hard, a tremor runs through the entire ancient building. Arthur looks up from his desk in the main hallway while the slam echoes all around him. He slowly closes the book he has open on the worn but ornate wooden surface,
NaomiAfter two days of travel home, and two days spent sulking and dodging my family at every turn, I finally step out for fresh air in the middle of the night. Old Moonrise is set in shades of wet neon light. There’s a shift in the air, which is now shockingly warm compared to only a week ago, and the snow has officially begun to melt, ushering in spring. A time of change. A season of love, if the mating festivals are anything to get excited about. It’s also, for some odd reason, the beginning of the tourist season in Moonrise, which is famous for its spring blooms. Spring is late this year, however, and rainier than usual, which means everyone is packed inside as it stands. Even Serpents Hollow, the home base of my friend group, is bursting at the seams when I shove open the door and find myself faced with dozens of backs waiting to get close enough to the bar to get a drink. I groan, huff, and elbow my way through the crowd, ignoring the snarls and bared teeth thrown my way, a
FraserHer eyes are like molten glass in the haze of dragon smoke and ash. Her weapon belt is full, hanging heavy off her waist. It doesn’t matter that her leather armor isn’t waxed. This isn’t a celebratory flight. This isn’t a show of beasts for the witch queens to the south. This is real. I knew it was real when others refused to believe it. “I know what you’re thinking, Fraser,” Eilidh says, her voice a shattered whisper. “Please, don’t make this harder than it has to be.”Ailish clutches my leg so hard her fingernails sink through my leathers and into my skin. I can’t bring myself to look down at her, not now, not when everything is falling apart, and there’s no way I can explain this to her in a way she’ll understand. She just watches Eilidh adjust her belt and check her manacles, over and over, while dragons move beyond us, preparing for flight. Final flights, but no one will listen to me. My lips part to command her to stay. “If they’re really gone, you’re now the king,”
NaomiFallon once told me, shortly after the waves of strife caused by her long absence had settled and Zayn became part of the family, that feeling a mate bond was the strangest, most unsettling feeling of her life. She didn’t mean it in a bad way. Witches are notoriously balanced beings, a necessary trait for performing magic. We’re hardwired to sync with the ebb and flow of the elements that keep our magical world turning. Something new, or something dangerous, can be a shock to the system. Fallon had no way of knowing Zayn was her mate until a specific moment where it just clicked, and she will never be the same. Now, years later, fully seated in her role as dutiful, loving wife and Luna, she thrives. Their bond has created a new kind of balance within her she describes as a missing piece of what makes her tick, like who she was before failed to meet cosmic expectations. Or something just as ridiculous. Call me bitter. Call me chronically lonely. I don’t care. I’m not sure I b
*Maddox*I walk ahead of the stretcher carrying Isla and try not to pull my fur out. If I had thumbs, I might’ve already pulled out enough fur around my forehead that I’d look bald.Images of a wolf with a receding hairline come to mind, and I almost laugh. But nothing is that funny right now.What the
ArisPosey disappears in a flurry of gray wool the second my powers fade like tendrils of smoke across the dark mosaic tiles of the grand foyer. Her footsteps echo down a darkened corridor, the only sound for what feels like an eternity–an eternity spent willing myself to stand still and not chase
Posey“I don’t think I understand.” I set the letter down and turn to Aris, who’s leaning against the hearth in our bedroom. “My father wrote this?”“It’s his blessing.” He crouches, inspecting the fire with a poker. I resist the urge to crumple the letter but set it neatly on the bed instead. “In
ArisMorgan’s long fingers trace over the top of my hand, her red painted nails shining in the firelight as she smiles at me, cat-like, her dark eyes giving away nothing. When I don’t react to her touch, she leans away to refill her glass of sparkling wine, clicking her tongue. She rises and turns







