I find Kieran hunched over the tactical table at that dead hour between night and morning, when exhaustion stops feeling temporary. Maps sprawl everywhere, marked with ugly red circles: bad news.
He looks like hell.
His shirt hangs open, revealing the network of scars I’ve traced a hundred times with my fingers. His jaw is dark with days of stubble, and his hair stands at angles that suggest he’s been running his hands through it constantly. The indigo marks I painted on his chest have faded to pale silver—the protective ritual already wearing off as the clock counts down.
He hasn’t slept. I can tell by the hollow look in his eyes.
“The baby,” I say; no point in dancing around it now. “Darius was dropping hints about the pregnancy, speeding things up. Accelerating the transformation.”
