And now, *her*.
Amaya.
She was another complication I didn’t need. Her presence unnerved me, not just because of the bond—though that alone was its own brand of torment—but because of the way she looked at me. Like she wanted to see past the walls I’d so carefully built. Like she wasn’t afraid of what she’d find.
She should be.
The emblem she’d shown me burned in my memory. Its crescent moon and wings, a symbol I hadn’t seen since the day my father slid that journal across his desk. The sight of it in her hands had sent a jolt of fear and anger racing through me. How did she find it? Why did she care?
And more importantly, why couldn’t I bring myself to push her far enough away that she’d stop asking questions?
I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms. I knew the answer.
