Liam woke to find his mate's eyes had gone silver in the predawn dark. Not the warm gold he'd grown accustomed to, but quicksilver bright, like mercury given sentence. The color they'd been when he first saw her in that government hellhole, feral and magnificent and absolutely done with cages.
"Your eyes," he murmured, tracing her cheekbone with careful fingers.
She blinked, and gold bled back in slow degrees. "Change now. Change with mood, with memory, with..." Her hand drifted to her belly where their cubs grew. "With them."
He'd noticed the shifts becoming more frequent. Gold when her wolf pressed close to the surface. That terrifying red when she'd nearly torn David's throat out—alpha crimson, the color of absolute dominance and killing rage. And now silver, ancient as winter stars.
