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And then buried. .

I actually fucking died.

My fingers drifted unconsciously to my throat, tracing the skin where Xavier's hands had crushed the life from me. The skin felt normal—smooth, warm, alive. No scars, no lingering bruises. Nothing to suggest I had ever stopped breathing, that my heart had ever stopped beating, that I had ever been...gone.

"I died," I whispered to the empty room, testing how the words felt in my mouth. They tasted wrong, impossible, like trying to swallow broken glass. "I actually died."

The revelation kept hitting me in waves, each one threatening to pull me under completely. My chest felt tight, too small to contain the storm building inside it. Pride's face hovered in my memory–his earnest expression as he'd told me he'd brought me back, like it was some kind of gift. Like killing me and then dragging me back was romantic instead of the most violating thing anyone had ever done to me.

And I'd let him kiss me. Let him. Jesus Christ, what was wrong with me?

The thoughts were suffocating me, spinning faster, growing louder: What happened to me when I was dead? Was there pain? Was there nothing? Did I have a soul there, consciousness, or was I just...gone? What am I now? Am I still human? Am I something else? Something broken? Something wrong?

My hands shook as I reached for my tea, the cup rattling against the saucer. The sound seemed too loud in the quiet cottage, echoing like a gunshot. Everything felt too loud, too bright, too much. The walls were closing in, and I couldn't breathe properly, couldn't think properly, couldn't–

At thirty-five, I should have been settled. Should have had some idea of who I was beyond the role I'd been groomed for. Instead, I'd spent my entire life being told exactly what my purpose was–marry Xavier, bear his children, strengthen the pack alliance. Now I didn't even know if I was still technically human.

The cobalt bottle glowed softly among its empty companions, filled with pure joy I'd harvested from that laughing child at the market. Golden light pulsed within it like a tiny heartbeat, somehow managing to look cheerful even as I sat here having what felt suspiciously like a complete mental breakdown.

Use it, part of my mind whispered. Just a sip. Take the edge off.

But that felt like cheating. Like avoiding the problem instead of dealing with it. And what was the point of borrowed happiness when nothing about my situation would actually change? I'd still be a dead woman walking, still be starting over with nothing, still be–

Wait.

If I could bottle others' emotions–joy, anger, desire–could I bottle my own? Extract this overwhelming terror and confusion, even temporarily?

The idea hit me like lightning, sudden and brilliant and probably incredibly stupid. I'd never tried to harvest my own emotions before. Didn't even know if it was possible. But I needed relief from this spiral, needed to think clearly, and I couldn't do that while drowning in panic.

I reached for the amber bottle–dark, smoky glass that looked like it could contain shadows, storms, all the dark things I needed to pull out of myself. My hands were still shaking as I uncorked it.

I closed my eyes, trying to visualize the tangled mess of feelings inside me. Fear about what I'd become. Confusion about how it had happened. Terror about what it meant. The crushing weight of starting over when everyone else my age seemed to have their lives figured out.

The panic felt like a living thing in my chest–a writhing, clawing creature made of what-ifs and worst-case scenarios. What if I'm not really alive? What if this is temporary? What if Pride can undo it as easily as he did it? What if I'm just a puppet now, dancing to his will? What if I never had a choice in any of this? What if I never will?

"Come out," I whispered through gritted teeth, focusing on drawing that storm toward the bottle in my hand. "Come the fuck out."

At first, nothing happened. Then I felt a tug deep in my solar plexus–not painful, but distinctly uncomfortable, like someone had hooked a finger beneath my ribs and pulled. I gasped, nearly dropping the bottle, but forced myself to maintain focus.

The tug intensified, a strange draining sensation spreading through my torso. Cold sweat broke out across my forehead as I concentrated harder, directing all my will toward moving those emotions out of my body and into the glass vessel. It felt like trying to tear pieces of myself away, like emotional surgery without anesthesia.

Something shifted inside me–a release, like a dam giving way under enormous pressure. I felt it flowing outward, a stream of emotional energy leaving me so fast it made me dizzy. Through barely-parted eyelids, I saw dark mist coiling from my chest toward the bottle's mouth, swirling inside like liquid smoke made of nightmares.

The process was draining in a way that capturing others' emotions had never been. My arms shook with the effort to keep the bottle steady, my breathing becoming shallow and rapid. This magick cost something–burned deep within me, left me feeling hollow and scraped clean.

Finally, the flow slowed to a trickle, then stopped. I corked the bottle quickly, watching the tempest rage inside–dark blues and grays and blacks churning together. My fear, my confusion, my vulnerability–all contained in smoky glass.

I set it carefully among the other bottles, then sat back, suddenly lightheaded.

The difference was immediate and profound.

The crushing weight that had been pressing on my chest was gone. The frantic spinning of my thoughts had stopped. My mind felt clearer, sharper, like fog had been burned away by brilliant sunlight. I could still remember the anxietyintellectually, but the emotional impact had been muted to almost nothing.

I stood, testing how my body felt. Stronger. Lighter. As if I'd set down a burden I'd been carrying for years.

But something else was happening too. Without fear tempering them, my other emotions were intensifying to fill the void. Anger simmered beneath the surface–at Xavier for murdering me, at Pride for his presumption, at my mother for never giving me choices, at fate for putting me in this position. But without fear to balance it, the anger felt cleaner somehow. More righteous. More empowering.

A dangerous sense of invulnerability settled over me like a warm cloak. What was there to be afraid of, really? I'd already died once. I'd clawed my way out of my own grave with nothing but rage and determination. I'd faced my murderer and walked away. I'd discovered magick no one else seemed to possess.