Page 167 of Cursed Evermore
Garrick glared back at him. “You hadn't started the spell yet.”
“It doesn't matter.” Wolfe got up in his face. “I gave the order for a fucking reason, but you can't go one minute without thinking with your dick, can you?”
Arielle and I exchanged glances, her eyes wide with something close to fear. Or maybe recognition. As if warning me that a monster was about to unleash.
“What in the hells is that supposed to mean?” Garrick barked back.
Wolfe grabbed Garrick by the throat and hoisted him up into the air. “It means don't fucking touch my mage.” His voice didn't sound like him anymore. It dripped vengeance. Slow. Poisonous. Even his shadows fled from his skin, like cloaked souls.
My lungs seized, breath abandoning me entirely.
My mage.Wolfe called me his mage. And Gods... thewayhe said it.
Something primal stirred inside me, clawing at the surface, begging to be claimed even as my mind screamed with warnings.
I couldn't look away from him, from the rage that wrapped around him like armor and the shadowed devotion buried beneath it.
Heat surged through me, shamefully alive and unyielding, making me drop my guard again and want Wolfe Nightblade more than I should. And that terrified me more than anything else.
Wolfe released Garrick with a vicious shove. Then froze.
His gaze lifted, meeting silver threads shimmering above him. Ribbons of silver brushed his shoulders, spinning around him like starlight caught in a storm.
They were the same threads we'd both seen at the tavern in Stormfell the night we met. I’d seen them in my dream too when the Ruskiel tried to take me.
Mother called them Nyzith strands.
Garrick grabbed Wolfe's arm, pulling him in for a fight. “Wolfe, you're a fucking asshole. I?—”
“Silence.” Wolfe's voice cracked like a whip as he shoved him away again.
Wolfe looked over at me, his face still twisted in rage as he pointed from me to the silver threads. “You. What are you doing?”
I frowned, glaring at him. “What are you talking about? It's not me. It must be you. They're all the way over there withyou.”
“Maybe you're trying to saveGarrick,” he bit out, his voice sharp with something that sounded like jealousy. Or something darker. I couldn't tell which, only that his tone was leached with accusation.
“The Nyzith strands aren't coming from me.” I shook my head vigorously. “I hardly have any powers. Do you seriously think I can conjure a room full of silvery threads?”
They'd multiplied substantially, covering Wolfe like a host of cottonwood seeds claiming the air in the height of spring.
Arielle stepped forward, looking from Wolfe to me, confusion marring her face. “What are you two talking about? Nyzith strands haven't been seen anywhere for decades. Yet you're talking about them as though they're here with us.”
“The room is covered. Can't you see them?” Wolfe snapped, glaring at her.
“No. I see nothing.” Arielle looked around.
“I can't see them either,” Garrick said, searching, too. “There's nothing here but us.”
Wolfe and I looked at each other, realizing we were the only ones who could see them. It had been the same at the tavern, but I'd assumed that was because we were the only two magic-born people in the room.
Now they were here again. And it really was justuswho could see them.
As if they'd read my mind, the threads condensed and swirled as one, soaring toward me. Then they covered me like silver petals raining from the sky, gracing my head, my shoulders, my fingers, my feet.
Wolfe returned to my side, his gaze riveted to the strange silver threads while Arielle and Garrick watched, oblivious to what we could see.
The threads began to spin around the two of us, then they sang. A sweet, delicate melody flowed from them, echoing whispers of hope and dreams and love.
