Rowan didn’t know how long she sat there on the cold, warped floor of the Guthrie house, Maisie tucked against her chest so tightly she half expected the child to vanish if she loosened her grip. The other witches shifted around them in a restless circle, their whispers skimming the edges of Rowan’s magic like flies drawn to fresh blood. She ignored them. All she cared about was the rise and fall of Maisie’s breath against her neck, the warm pulse of life she’d ripped back from the Hollow Court’s hungry dark.
Lucien knelt behind her, one cold hand splayed protectively between Rowan’s shoulder blades, the other curved gently around Maisie’s small, tangled curls. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. The ice of his skin anchored the burn in Rowan’s veins, kept her fury from cracking wide
