Rose sat curled beneath the window, moonlight cascading across the pages of the book like soft fingertips. Her mates had fallen silent around her, each one processing what they’d heard. But Rose was still inside the words, held by them like arms that had long waited to embrace her.
Then the book shifted.
The page she’d left open shimmered with silver threads of ink. They pulsed once—like a heartbeat—and the edges began to glow faintly. Her breath caught as the words bled away, replaced by images. No, not just images—a memory. One not her own.
She leaned forward.
And the room fell away.
Wind stirred petals through tall grass as the vision pulled her in. The air smelled of honeysuckle and morning dew, and a sky too blue to be real stretched above a sunlit meadow. Mountains slumbered on
