Page 25 of Shadowkissed

I close my fists until it stops. What the fuck is happening to me?

11

LIORA

Ifeel him.

It’s not sight. Not sound. Not scent. It’ssomething else. Something deeper.

A tremor in the thread that keeps tugging at my spine, even when I try to ignore it. A low, ancient vibration humming beneath my skin like a suppressed memory. Like something old justwoke up—insidehim. And I don’t know how or why, but I can feel it happening to him, just like it did to me last night.

I’m crouched beneath the crumbling arch of an abandoned bridge, hiding from the world, damp stone pressing into my back. But my magic is restless. Agitated. Stirred by him. I can feel it.

The wolf.

Dante.

I slam my palm to the earth beneath me, trying to ground myself, to lock the flaring power back down into the pit where I keep it buried. My runes pulse in warning, glowing faintly against my skin like a heartbeat echoing his.

I told myself I was done. That I got what I needed. That I’d walk away. Let him go before this turned into something that couldn’t be unwound and he ended up hurt. But magic doesn’t let go just because I tell it to.

And neither does fate.

My teeth grind together. “Godsdamn you.” I don’t know if I mean him or myself.

I stand, brush moss off my thighs, and look west toward the skyline. Towardhim. I can’t stay away. Ineedto know if what I felt in that room—when our hands touched, when the magic cracked open like a fault line—was just mine…

Orours.

I find my way back to his loft just after midnight.

The street’s quiet, fog curling through the alley like breath. His building looms above me, all cold concrete and locked doors. But the wards recognize me. They don’t stop me.

They should. But they don’t.

I climb the stairs slowly, second-guessing every step.

What am I doing?

I don’t knock. I push the door open like I belong here.

He’s in the kitchen, shirtless, drinking something dark from a tumbler, back turned. His tattoos catch the dim light—slashes of ink and scars down his spine, muscle tight and defined like rope beneath skin. There’s a tension in the line of his shoulders, like heknowsI’m here.

He sets the cup down slowly. Doesn’t turn.

“You came back.”

“I shouldn’t have.”

Finally, he turns.

His gaze lands on me, heavy and unreadable. Eyes like winter storms—quiet, cold, waiting to break.

“You okay?” he asks.

“No,” I admit. “Not even close.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t press.

---