Eli
We cross the line into Blackthorn and the air changes.
Not the temperature, the weight. The world seems to lean toward Ronan like iron to a magnet.
The bond kicks under my skin. Ronan stumbles once. It’s small, a hitch only someone looking for it would see.
I’m always looking for him.
“Keep moving,” Jace says, low and clipped, eyes hunting the treeline behind us. “We’re not safe yet.”
Ronan breathes like the forest owes him air and it isn’t paying fast enough. He hasn’t let go of the back of my neck since leaving the Redmaw camp.
Fingers hot, steady, possessive enough that something traitorous in me quiets. Then his grip tightens, a not-human growl scraping his throat, and my name drags out of him like it has teeth.
“Eli.”
He stops dead. The hand on my nape turns to iron. Gol
