Page 1 of Snag
ONE
ZAYA
“No threads connect us,”I repeat numbly, listing toward Rought. He’s still gently holding both my hands, and I’m not fighting him over it.
All the fight has drained from me.
I trace my eyes over him, anchoring myself in all the little details because everything else, each revelation tumbling down over the next one, is too much. Dark-blond hair, curling at his temples against naturally tan skin. Even barefoot, he’s easily eight inches taller than me. He hides an intricate web of tattoos under his black T-shirt, including a memorial tattoo of a floral anatomical heart for his lost childhood love.
Marrow.
Me.
“No threads connect us …” I whisper again, my gaze on the feathers peeking out from the collar of his shirt, kissing his neck. More tattoos decorate his forearms and the backs of his hands.
Feathers because his inner beast is a gryphon. Half-eagle, half-lion. A guardian of the divine. Which is ridiculously appropriate because I’m … I’m …
I’m the aspect of a goddess myself.
That power is still unsettled within me, though. As if it hasn’t infused itself on a molecular level yet, hasn’t completely permeated my soul. I press my hand over the necklace tucked under my sweater — a massive pink-diamond amulet caged in threads of gold that teem with power separate from my own. That artifact, heavy with metaphorical weight rather than actual physical mass, appeared around my neck at the moment of my aunt’s death. It’s supposed to help me navigate … well, all of what it means to be the Conduit.
Rought tightens his hold on my left hand and draws it against his chest, so I can feel his heart beating. Steady and sure. His body heat radiates through his shirt, warming my chilly fingers.
And I know now … I know the other reason I haven’t felt wholly realized in a very long time. One of three reasons, at least.
Including the male staring at me with concern, in wonder, with the burnished gold of his gryphon ringing his blue-green eyes.
Rought.
My soul-bound mate.
Mine.
I’ve been … rudderless, aimless, reckless. I thought that was just my nature. Because I was destined to be the next Conduit, pulled back from death numerous times because I had a duty to the fucking universe. Not truly a person, just a vessel-in-waiting.
And also … banished, I now realize, from the property, from the intersection point my aunt held — one of only seven active secondary anchors for all essence. Though once there were nine intersection points in total. Energy, or life force depending on various belief systems, is first anchored in the Conduit, then woven around the globe through the intersection points in a protective boundary.
I’ve been banished from the family that could have been mine.
“Thirteen years ago …” I murmur, starting to piece it together. Thread by thread. Maybe I can weave it all back into place? First in my mind, and then … gathering the missing pieces of my soul?
Rought swallows harshly, drawing my gaze back to the tanned skin of his neck. “Yes. Almost thirteen years now …” The Southern drawl to his accent is tinged with old grief. “We had part of that summer together.”
His gaze flicks to the black-and-white photograph on the wall behind me. One of the numerous photos I’ve just discovered in the second bedroom of the caretaker’s suite in the workshop-barn. Taken by Mack, the former occupant of these rooms and my aunt’s recently deceased chosen. The space is just white-painted walls, worn wood floors, and at least twenty identically framed eighteen-inch photographs.
All taken without our knowledge, according to Rought— and to my still-hazy memories of the time I spent at the Gage estate, from childhood through my teenage years.
I don’t have to turn to recall the photo that’s captured Rought’s attention over my shoulder. The moment immortalized within it, of which I have no actual memory, is already burned into my brain.
The three half-brothers and me by a campfire on the beach in monochrome. Rought, Rath, andReck. Starlight overhead. And anatomical hearts tattooed across all our chests.
“I died … that summer,” I say.
“Yes.”
“I don’t remember that either.”
“I do.” Rought’s thumb brushes against the back of my hand still pressed against his chest. His caress is tender, comforting.
