The Witch's Demon Mate
he murmured.
She leaned into him, exhaustion pulling at her limbs. The bond still pulsed, but now it was soft, rhythmic—like the glow of coals instead of fire. Their breaths mingled, their foreheads brushing, and for a moment the world shrank to just the warmth between them.
But the Glasslands were never truly quiet.
The ground chimed with faint vibrations beneath their feet, as if the shards buried deep below were whispering to one another, preparing their next cruel trick. The sky above them cracked with pale rivers of light, unnatural and eerie, like a web of glass that might shatter at any moment.
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