Page 131 of Pack Frenzy
And just like that, the crowd swallows Rowan and Cassian, leaving me and Eli standing shoulder to shoulder in the slow pulse of the merch hall lights.
“Let’s check the stalls up ahead,” I say, scanning the nearest aisle where light-up toys flicker like bait. “She might’ve wandered toward the colors.”
“Good thinking,” Eli says, falling into step beside me. His hand brushes the small of my back as we weave through the crowd, eyes scanning between vendors. Every few booths, we call her name, but it disappears under the hum of music and chatter.
We pause near a row of displays selling glass charms and enamel pins—tiny constellations glittering under the lights. The noise fades just enough to breathe again.
I reach out to touch a crescent moon charm glittering under the lights. “Damn, I miss this kind of stuff,” I say quietly. “Not when I was little—later. When I actually needed something to feel… normal.”
Eli’s gaze flicks toward me, knowing exactly what I mean. He’s heard enough about the lessons, the drills, the tutors my dad hired to keep me busy so he didn’t have to deal with me.
“After your sister disappeared,” he says softly. Not a question.
I nod. “He couldn’t control what happened to her, so he tried to control me. Bought me an instructor instead of asking how I was doing. Instead ofbeingthere for me.” I swallow hard, hating how small my voice sounds. “I kept waiting for him to notice me. But I guess it was easier to throw money at the problem than actually look at me.”
Eli’s expression shifts—sympathy and heat tangled together. Then he reaches out, thumb brushing the strap of my used bookstore tote that’s slipped off my shoulder, settling it back into place. His fingers linger just long enough to make my pulse stutter, and he hugs me.
“You get to want things now,” he murmurs. “Even the small ones.”
Something cracks open in my chest—small, painful, hopeful. I didn’t realize how much I needed someone to say that. To givemepermissionto be more than the girl who survived. My eyes prick with heat, and I blink fast, looking away before he can see.
“I’m still figuring out what that feels like,” I whisper.
The chattering of the hall fades until all I hear is my own breathing and the low hum of his scent: bergamot and linen curling into mine.
It’s simple, almost casual, but it lands deep, filling in the space I try not to let anyone see.
For a second, it feels like the whole world narrows to this tiny, glowing moment with the hum of music, the warmth of his hand, the faint overlap of our scents blending into something new.
I let out a shaky laugh. “You’re dangerously good at this whole normal thing.”
His eyes soften. “You make it easy and I want?—”
My breath catches.What? What does he want?I’m suddenly terrified and desperate in equal measure to hear the rest of that sentence. But his phone rings, shattering the moment, and he answers it.
I’m not sure if I’m relieved or devastated. Maybe both.
“Yeah?” He turns slightly, pressing it to his ear. “Cass?”
I only catch half the conversation—something aboutfinding herand beingsafe now.
His shoulders ease. “Good work. Tell Rowan I’ll—yeah, we’re still by the vendor hall. Try the north exit?—”
His brows knit as he tilts the phone away. “Damn reception. Come to the north exit.” He steps toward the edge of the aisle. “You still there?”
I study a small display of metal pins etched with constellations and characters fromThe Spirit Engine Chronicles. My fingers hover over one shaped like a glowing compass. The craftsmanship is ridiculous—silver detailing so fine it looks hand-carved. I wonder if it’s real.
“Didn’t expect to see you here,” a male voice says.
My hand freezes above the display.
Blake’s standing beside me—no warning, no footsteps, just there in dark jeans and a gray Polo shirt. He looks normal. Harmless, if you didn’t know better. But his smile—the one that doesn’t touch his eyes—hasn’t changed.
“Cute outfit,” he says lightly. “Didn’t peg you for the cosplay type.”
My pulse stumbles. Every instinct screamsmove,but my body doesn’t get the message. It’s like I’m fifteen again, trapped in a lesson I didn’t sign up for, waiting for the blow I know is coming. All that training, and the moment it matters, I’m frozen.
Pathetic.The thought slices through me, sharp and familiar-sounding, just like my dad, the first and only time he watched one of my lessons.
