Callum’s arms are shaking.
No one else sees it—no one ever sees it—but I do. Callum can hold a battlefield steady with blood on his boots and a kingdom on his back, but right now?
Right now he’s holding her, and every muscle in his body is fighting not to fall apart.
Rhea is burning up.
Not fever-burn. Not shift-fever.
This is power burn—raw, rising, wrong. Like her skin is too mortal to hold what’s trying to tear its way out.
She’s curled against Callum’s chest, breath broken, trembling every few seconds. Every time her fingers twitch, the four of us lock up like we’ve been stabbed.
I hate this.
I hate not knowing what’s happening.
I hate that I can’t stop it.
I hate how scared I am—actually, genuinely terrified—for the first time in my life.
We move through Ridge Storm’s corri
