JANAYAH

The SUV was a cage on wheels, smelling of stale leather and Michael’s cloying, metallic scent—blood mixed with expensive musk. I was jammed into the footwell of the back seat, curled tight against the transmission tunnel, trying to make myself disappear.

Every mile we put between us and the cabin felt like a physical tearing inside my chest. I couldn't close my eyes without seeing Mace on that floor—his magnificent strength turned to paralyzed stone, his golden eyes wide with a panic that mirrored my own, the grey pallor of death creeping up his neck.

A high, keening sound escaped my throat, involuntary and pathetic.

“Silence, pet,” Michael said...