The drive back into Blackridge territory passed in fragments.
I drifted in and out against Tristan’s chest, pulled under by exhaustion and the lingering chemical fog in my system, then startled awake every time the vehicle hit a rough stretch of road. Each time I woke, his arms were still locked around me. Each time, the bond flared with the same raw, vibrating intensity—relief and residual fury tangled so tightly I could barely tell them apart.
“Still here,” he murmured once when he felt me tense. His voice was low and rough, scraped raw from shouting or worse. “I’ve got you.”
I believed him. I had to. The alternative was sinking back into the memory of silver rope and the scarred man’s calm, poisonous voice.
When the vehicle finally stopped, the night air outside the Alpha house smel
