Page 47 of Shifting Hearts 1
I want to kill him. Right here. Snap his neck and let the walls drink his blood, but Raven is behind me. Breathing hard, bleeding, and that terrifies me more than anything.
I turn to her. She’s still standing, still fierce, but her arm is torn open, crimson soaking the sleeve of my shirt.
I feel it then, true fear. Real, gut-deep fear. Not for the Brotherhood, not for the war, forher.
I bring her here. I promise her safety. I swear she’ll be protected.
And now she bleeds in my bed.
I drag the attacker out, throw him before the Brotherhood, and speak the word that burns his mark from his skin.
“Exile.”
They watch in silence. No one moves. No one speaks.
I don’t care.
I go back to her, kneeling beside her, hands shaking as I reach for the wound.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I should’ve stayed.”
She doesn’t flinch. She just looks at me with those eyes, storm-dark, unyielding.
“They’ll come harder now,” she says.
“I know,” I respond. “But so will I.”
Her blood is still warm on my hands.
I’ve cleaned the wound and wrapped it tight but the sight of it, her skin torn, her breath uneven won’t leave me. She sits on the edge of my bed, silent now, watching the fire like it might offer answers. I kneel beside her, the weight of what I almost lost pressing down on my chest.
I reach for the satchel beneath the floorboards, the one I haven’t touched in years.
Inside is a vial of ash, a strip of cloth marked with the Brotherhood’s founding sigil, and a blade carved from bone. Not for killing. For binding.
She watches me warily. “What is that?”
“A rite,” I state. “Old. Forgotten by most. It was used to protect the Alpha’s mate in times of war.”
Her brow furrows. “They know exactly who I am, what I carry. Why use a rite for me?”
“Because prophecy isn’t protection, and I won’t let them treat you like a weapon when you’remine.”
I sit across from her, laying the items between us. The fire dims as the runes on the walls flicker, responding to the ritual’s presence. I slice my palm with the bone blade, just enough to draw blood. The mark on my shoulder flares, glowing faintly.
“Give me your hand,” I command.
She hesitates, then offers it. I take it gently, pressing the blade to her skin. I bind her palm to mine, blood to blood. The ash goes into the flame. The cloth wraps around our joined hands.
The room shifts.
The runes blaze.
The mark on my shoulder pulses and then splits, a second sigil forming beneath it. One I haven’t seen since the old wars, one that means bound.
Her eyes widen. “What did you do?”
“I tied your protection to my mark,” I say. “If anyone tries to harm you again, the Brotherhood will feel it. Every one of them. Through me.”
