The blood-stained feather sat on the obsidian nightstand, a jagged wound in the otherwise perfect silence of the room. The scent of sulfur lingered, a foul reminder that the walls of the Black Ridge—walls I had finally started to trust—were porous to the dark arts.
Silas didn't go back to bed. He stood by the balcony, his bare chest bronzed by the dying embers of the fire. His muscles were corded with tension, and through the bond, his emotions felt like a storm of jagged ice.
“They will not have you,” the thought thundered in my mind, raw and lethal.
I stood up, wrapping a silk robe around my shoulders. The air in the room felt different now—heavy, as if the shadows in the corners were watching us. I walked over to Silas, placing my hand on the small of his back. He didn't turn, but I
