Page 31 of Roar Me Like You Mean It
I rub my eyes and return to the table, shuffling the papers Malek left behind after his fight. He didn’t mean to. He doesn’t strike me as careless. But tucked in the stack is something small, heavy enough that I notice when I pick the pages up. A disc, no bigger than my palm, made of bronze worn dull with age.
It catches the light in a way that makes me pause. Old markings are stamped into it, faint but still visible if I tilt it just right. The edges are smooth from touch, the surface carrying a warmth that doesn’t make sense for cold metal.
My fingers trace the central symbol before I can think better of it.
The world lurches.
I’m not in my apartment anymore.
I stand on a cliff above a city I know but don’t recognize. Washington—but drowned in fire. The sky is black with smoke, embers falling like dying stars, the sound of collapsing stone rolling like thunder. Rivers of blood snake through the streets, carrying bodies like driftwood. The air tastes of ash and iron, burning my throat, searing my lungs.
Below, a throne rises from the wreckage, built of steel and bone. Roman sits on it, his body gleaming as though it’s been reforged, his eyes molten gold. Rows of shifters kneel at his feet,thousands of them, their forms twisted between beast and man, their eyes blank and lifeless.
Chained beside them are women. Human women, their wrists bound, their eyes hollow. But their blood glows faintly, pulsing under their skin like embers in glass. The air vibrates with whispers that grow louder with each breath I take, voices chanting words I don’t understand but that scrape against my bones.
Roman rises, slow and deliberate, the fire reflecting off his skin. He looks up, straight at me though I am nothing but a shadow on a cliff far above, and his smile is slow, sharp.
“This is what waits for you, witch.”
The word echoes, louder than the roar of fire, louder than the screams. Witch.
The world shatters around me.
I collapse onto the floor of my apartment, sprawled against the hardwood, the disc clattering out of my grip and spinning once before settling. My chest heaves, sweat slick across my skin, my pulse a hammer in my throat. The hum of the refrigerator is the only sound, the city noise outside faint and distant again, but I don’t feel safe. The vision clings to me, the heat of the flames still searing my skin, the smell of blood and ash still coating my tongue.
The disc lies only inches away, innocuous, ordinary now. But I can’t bring myself to touch it again. My fingers tremble when I shove it into a drawer, slam it shut, and lean against the counter as though wood and metal could block out whatever the hell just happened.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but the images won’t leave me. The throne. The chains. Roman’s eyes locking on mine like he’d been waiting.
I whisper the word before I can stop myself, the same one he used.
“Witch.”
The sound of it feels wrong in my mouth, too heavy, like I’ve dragged something old into the room that shouldn’t be spoken aloud.
I sink onto the couch, drag my knees to my chest, and press my forehead to them. For the first time in years, I feel something close to fear. Not the kind I’ve trained myself to control in courtrooms or raids, but the kind that seeps into your bones and stays there.
Because deep down, I know what I saw wasn’t just a dream. And worse than that, I know it wasn’t just a warning.
It was a promise.
21
MALEK
The night draws me back to her. I tell myself it’s only to be certain she hasn’t been touched again, that the Syndicate hasn’t sent another beast sniffing after her scent. But the truth digs deeper, clawing at me no matter how hard I fight it. My body is restless without her close, my mind circling back to her no matter how many maps, how many war plans, how many bloody memories I lay out before me to distract it.
So I go.
Her building is quiet when I arrive, its brick face damp from the rain that swept through the city earlier, the streetlight casting yellow pools of reflection across the slick pavement. The guard at the desk doesn’t see me, doesn’t hear me. I don’t need permission to move where I choose.
I find her door unlocked. That sets my teeth on edge immediately, because she is careful—too careful to leave herself exposed. I push it open and step inside.
The air is thick, not with her usual sharp coffee and soap scent, but with something else. Heat. Ozone. The charge of old magic.
She’s on the floor in the middle of her living room, sprawled on her back, her body rigid, her eyes wide and unseeing as if she’s staring into something beyond this world. Papers scatter around her, her laptop casting a ghostly glow across the walls. Her lips move, but the words are faint, broken.
“Roman…”
