SKY
His face is familiar in a way that bothers me. I know I’ve seen him before, but my mind won’t settle on where. The thought keeps slipping away.
I stay curled inward, arms tight, body small, every instinct screaming not to let him touch me. His hands are too big. They look rough. His hair is jet black, thick and unstyled.
His skin is darkened by the sun, not pale like someone who hides indoors. His face is hard and sharp in places, rugged in a way that feels earned. He’s tall. Easily over six feet. He blocks light without trying.
There’s no muzzle on me, but my throat feels raw, scraped from the inside. Swallowing hurts. Talking takes effort. I force the words out anyway.
“Who are you?”
“Rylan,” he says, like it’s not worth more than one word. His gaze drops to my chest. “That
