Beau didn't blink.
He didn't breathe.
He didn't move.
He simply stared at me like he had looked into the sun and gone blind from the truth.
His hand stayed frozen against my back. His chest remained perfectly still, no rise, no fall. Jack stood beside him in a rigid line, posture tight, eyes sharp.
The forest around us felt too quiet. Even the wind held still, like the world itself leaned in to listen. My wolf paced inside me with sharp, agitated steps, watching the twins through my eyes, pushing at my ribs like she wanted to snarl and laugh at the same time.
Finally Beau exhaled a single shaky breath.
“Lainey,” he whispered, “you smell like nothing. And everything.”
I stared at him. “That's not helpful. That's the opposite of helpful. That's a horoscope written by a drunk poet.”
