WOLVES OF WINTER MOON
My magic still crackles under my skin—white, volatile, unfamiliar.
Rylan is across the room.
Not unconscious.
Not dead.
Something worse.
He’s on his hands and knees, gasping, his body shaking as if it doesn’t know which shape to choose. Gold light flickers beneath his skin, then dies. His wolf claws scrape against the stone before retreating. His breathing is ragged, raw, unanchored.
I crawl to him without thinking.
The bond does not answer.
That absence is a wound all its own.
“Rylan,” I whisper, touching his shoulder.