MARGOT’S POV
The second my wrist jerks upward again, pointing straight toward the mountains like a possessed compass needle, I drop my arm so fast I nearly slap myself.
“No,” I declare. “Absolutely not. I am not going wherever that is pointing.”
The mark pulses under my skin like it is offended. A warm throb rolls through my palm, up my forearm, and settles deep in my bones. I shake my hand like that will do anything at all. It does not.
Nathan moves instantly, stepping in front of me and blocking the doorway like a six foot five wall of stubborn Alpha intensity. His jaw is tight. His eyes are locked on my wrist like he plans to physically fight it.
“You are not going anywhere,” he says.
I point at my arm. “Then tell my wrist. It is acting like it has Google Maps.”
The mark pulses a
