The Lycan King’s Broken Mate
“…always carries weight.”
The moonstone’s glow moves slowly. It doesn’t fade or grow, only wanders, like the light of a star on the sea’s surface when you watch from a boat. From the rim of the water now and then a drop falls, louder, when mist beads break and find the ground, and I count time by these drips—I don’t know how much is how much, but every ten drops I touch the twins, as if touch were the other half of the hourglass.
When both have fed and fallen asleep—one more quickly, the other with a grumpy hiss—I slide down lower against the wall, making a shelf of my body beneath them, re-tying the cloth, and only then notice my hand still trembles. Not from fear. From overflow.