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DAIN

L iora is dying in my arms.

Her body convulses violently, her breath erratic, blood leaking from her nose, from her ears, from the corners of her lips. Too much blood. Too much for a mortal to lose and survive.

I do not know how to stop it.

Her skin burns beneath my touch, her limbs seizing with every violent tremor. Whatever magic she unleashed—whatever that cursed book forced through her, it is killing her.

No.

I refuse it.

I tighten my hold, wings snapping open as I launch into the sky, driving us higher into the storm-laden winds. The night is thick with the scent of rain, of dirt, of the remnants of magic still clinging to her fragile form.

I fly hard, faster than I should with injuries still fresh in my own body, but there is no choice. She cannot die.

She will not die.

A town appears beneath me, dimly lit, quiet. A place forgotten by war, swallowed in the rolling hills and thick forests. No guards. No watchtowers. Small. Remote.

Perfect.

I land outside the outskirts, keeping to the darkness, my instincts sharp, my every muscle primed for danger. I fold my wings in tight, cradling Liora against my chest as I move through the abandoned streets.

The town is asleep, the houses lifeless, but I do not need shelter, I need seclusion.

A structure looms in the distance, its windows dark, its scent old with dust and disuse. Empty. It will do.

I push inside, kicking the rotting door shut behind me. The space is cramped, the wooden beams aged and cracked, the walls whispering with forgotten time. No one has lived here in years.

Good.

I lower Liora onto a moth-eaten rug, my claws brushing her sweat-dampened forehead. Her face is ashen, her lips parted as if gasping for a breath that does not come.

Her heartbeat is slowing.

Too slow.

Panic is a foreign thing, an emotion I have not allowed in centuries, but it claws at my ribs now, filling my chest with an unbearable pressure.

I do not know how to save her.

I have no power to heal.

She shudders again, a broken sound tearing from her throat. Blood seeps past her lips, staining her pale skin red, red, red.

A memory strikes like an arrow.

Blood.

Fed from her hands.

Her lips.

A woman, with eyes like fire, pressing her wrist to my mouth, whispering my name, before she sealed me away.

The taste of her had burned into me, marking me in ways even stone could not erase.

I remember. I despise it.

But the truth sits there, undeniable. Her blood saved me.

Purna blood.

Liora is Purna.

If there is even a chance, even a sliver of a chance that her blood can be bound to me the same way.

I do not hesitate.

My claws cut into my palm, slicing deep, the crimson pooling instantly. The scent of it is thick, metallic, laced with old magic.

I lift her, pressing her lips to my wound.

“Drink.”

Nothing.

She does not move, her lashes fluttering weakly.

I snarl, fingers gripping her jaw, forcing her mouth open. Forcing her to take it.

“Drink.”

The first drop touches her tongue, and the world shifts.

A ripple of heat unfurls between us, something ancient snapping into place.

The connection is instant.

Her lips part further, her body seizing with a violent shudder, and then she drinks.

A pull—deep, primal.

I feel it deep inside me, curling in my gut.

My heartbeat stutters, then syncs.

The moment stretches.

Her fingers curl, clawing at my arm, her throat swallowing, her body taking me in.

Something unfamiliar hits me.

A force I do not understand.

She gasps, suddenly lurching forward, her eyes flying open.

She looks at me.

A look that's not usual. Something that creeps through me. And she speaks.

“Dain.”

The way she says my name, as if she has known me for a thousand lifetimes.

As if it belongs to her.

My pulse thunders, my grip loosening as I shove away from her, my mind snapping into chaos.

No.

It cannot be.

It is not possible.

Liora shifts, her movements fluid, her limbs no longer weak but graceful, powerful.

She rises onto her knees, her head tilting as if seeing me for the first time. And then, she smiles.

Something in me breaks.

She moves before I can stop her, closing the space between us, pressing her hands against my chest, her eyes locked onto mine.

The scent of her is different now, thick with the remnants of blood, with the remnants of me.

Her fingers trail up my throat, slow, deliberate.

“You called to me,” she murmurs.

The words are wrong.

Not hers.

My hands clench into fists. “You do not know what you’re saying.”

Her head tilts. “Don’t I?”

I grit my teeth, rage coiling hot.

She should not move like this.

She should not speak like this.

She is Liora, but she is not.

She leans in, her breath a whisper against my lips. Too close.

I should stop her.

I do not.

Her fingers tangle into my hair, and before I can tear myself away.

She kisses me.

Fire.

Pure, consuming, damning.

The taste of her punches through me, her lips soft, insistent, taking without hesitation.

I give in.

My hands snap to her waist, dragging her against me, forcing her deeper, parting her lips with a growl.

She whimpers, and I lose the last of my reason.

There is nothing else but the press of her body, the heat between us, the pull of something ancient that I cannot fight.

I kiss her like she belongs to me.

Because she does.

The thought strikes me so violently I rip away from her, panting, my claws shaking as I push her back.

Liora blinks, dazed, confused.

I step away.

This is wrong.

This is not supposed to be happening.

She looks too much like her.

Her eyes, those damned eyes.

I do not recognize my own voice when I speak.

“Who are you?”

She does not answer, only stares.