The storm was quieting, but the world outside still looked bruised and breathless as Rowan trudged up the cabin steps. Snow clung to his clothes in jagged patches, melting down his neck and soaking into the collar of his shirt. He barely noticed the cold. His lungs burned, his wrists ached where claws had burst through earlier, and copper still coated the back of his tongue from the fight.
But he held the rogue girl—no, not rogue, not truly—in his arms like something fragile and breakable. She was unconscious now, head nestled against his shoulder, her breaths shallow but steady. Small. Lightweight. Barely past her first shift.
And familiar.
Too familiar.
Asher prowled inside his mind with restless urgency, hackles raised.
She’s connected to Holly. I feel it. I know it.
Yes. Rowan’s
