Page 16 of Shadowkissed

I barely have time to roll before the blade whips past my head, slicing into the brick where I just stood. It’s not steel. It’s bone, carved with symbols I’ve only ever seen in death rites. I twist to face him.

Tall. Gaunt. Skin the color of bruises. His eyes glow black with pinpricks of white like stars in a void. His smile is too wide. His fingers areclaws.

“Pretty little puppet,” he coos. “Running won’t help. And I have to teach you once again, you can’t talk to your Lord that way.”

“I’m not running,” I spit, throwing a blast of shadow at his chest. It hits, but barely slows him. He stalks forward, dragging the blade along the wall.

I dive left, snatching a rusted pipe from the ground. Not enchanted. Not ideal. But it’ll do.

He lunges and we clash.

It’s fast, brutal, messy. I dodge two of his strikes, but he takes a shallow slice across my hip. Blood slicks my side, hot and wet, and my tattoosscreamagainst my skin.

I slam the pipe into his ribs—feel bone crack—but he justlaughs.

“You taste like prophecy,” he hisses, eyes gleaming. “He’ll be so pleased.”

“You first,” I growl.

My power erupts.

Runes blaze. Shadows writhe. My feet lift from the ground as darkness pours from me like a living storm—and Iblasthim backward, through the brick wall and into the next building. But ithurts. Too much. Too fast.

I fall to the ground, vision blurring, breath ragged.

“Shit,” I gasp. “Shit, shit?—”

Footsteps.

Fast.

No—

He rounds the corner just as I try to disappear.

The wolf.

Our eyes lock. He sees the blood. He seesme.

“Nightshade?”

His voice cuts through the haze. A snarl and a question.

I stumble back, power flickering. I didn’t know he even knew my stage name. Not good.

Even bleeding, even gasping, even on the edge of blackout—I feel the pull. That magnetic gravity that makes my magic sit up andnotice. Like he’s not just a person, but a force. A law written in flesh and fury.

He’s all shadow and steel, moving like he’s been carved out of war. Broad shoulders tense beneath a worn black shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to show thick forearms inked with faded tattoos—pack markings that’ve been clawed out but not forgotten. His clothes are simple, tactical—dark jeans, boots heavy with purpose. Nothing fancy. Everything deadly.

Ice-gray eyes sweep the alley, land on me—andstay. They don’t flinch. Don’t question. They justsee, sharp and full of something I can’t name. Not pity. Not shock. Something like recognition.

He looks like he was made to stand between monsters and the dark. Like he’s not afraid of what I am.

And gods help me, that’s the most terrifying part.

His mouth is hard, jaw clenched, but his gaze softens—just a flicker—as it lands on the blood soaking through my shirt.

And suddenly the air around me shifts, but not with magic. With him.

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