Page 11

DOMINIC

T he storm hit just after dusk.

One second, Dominic was tossing another log onto the fire while Lillith rummaged through her bookshelf for something called Moonbound Mystics, Volume Three , and the next, the sky cracked wide open with a roar that sent every bird in the trees screaming.

It wasn’t a normal storm. He could feel it.

Magic clung to the air like static, thick and buzzing, pressing against his skin like too-tight armor. The sky outside had turned a surreal, violent green, pulsing with arcs of lightning that didn’t strike so much as coil like serpents above the treetops.

He stood at the window, muscles tense, the hair on the back of his neck standing at attention.

Behind him, Lillith’s voice was tight. “That’s not natural.”

“Nope,” he agreed, jaw clenched. “That’s spell-born. Someone pissed off the wrong witch.”

A pulse of heat rolled through the cottage—the wards reacting to the shift outside. He turned to her. “You’ve got a storm ward, right?”

She nodded, but there was doubt in her eyes. “It’s not meant for this level.”

Another boom shook the ground, more like an explosion than thunder. The lights flickered once, twice—and then went out.

Lillith swore under her breath and moved quickly, hands already working through the dark to find the emergency candles. Dominic followed her, instinct thrumming in his bones.

“I’ll check the perimeter,” he said.

“You can’t go far,” she reminded him, tone sharp with worry.

“I won’t.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Just the edge of the porch.”

The moment he stepped outside, the storm met him like a challenge.

Wind lashed through the trees with banshee screams, hurling branches and debris across the clearing. The scent of burning magic hit Dominic’s nose—sulfur, ozone, and the bitter tang of bloodroot, all of it wrong.

He stilled, every muscle coiled. “What the hell are you?” he muttered to the air, low and feral.

The wind answered—not with words, but with a sound that rumbled through the bones of the earth itself.

A howl, stretched thin by something ancient and furious.

Then, as if the night split at the seams, a shape peeled itself from the treeline—black as pitch, woven from smoke and sparks, its limbs too long, too fluid, like the memory of a beast more than a body.

It moved like it remembered being a wolf. But it wasn’t. Not anymore.

Its eyes glowed ember-red, and they locked onto Dominic like a predator recognizing another.

It lunged.

He shifted mid-motion, the change ripping through him with a roar that felt half pain, half release.

Gold flared, muscle snapped and thickened, bones cracked into place.

The lion hit the clearing with enough force to rattle the porch beams, claws digging into soft earth, fangs bared in a snarl that reverberated through the storm.

They collided in a spray of sparks and shadow.

Dominic’s claws sank into the creature’s shoulder—if it even had one—but it didn’t bleed. It shrieked, the sound like metal grinding on bone, and coiled around him, biting and tearing with shadow-fangs that seared like lightning.

He fought like his life depended on it.

Because it did.

The creature twisted, smoke curling like tendrils around his limbs, trying to smother him, pull him apart molecule by molecule.

But Dominic was built for war. For protection.

For fury. He slammed it into the ground, claws raking through what little substance it had—and it shrieked again, louder, more desperate. Not dying. Fading.

Still, not before one of its claws raked across his shoulder in a swipe of fire and agony.

He roared.

A sound that tore the night in half.

The creature shattered.

Vanished into mist.

And Dominic collapsed to one knee, panting hard, his chest heaving. The wound burned deep, blood slicking his fur. Magic sizzled in his veins like static trying to escape.

It wasn’t just a cursed storm. This was targeted.

This was a message.

Something—or someone—had sent that creature straight for him.

Straight for them.

He staggered to his feet, still in lion form, the world swimming around him in shades of pain and adrenaline. He heard her before he saw her.

“Dominic!”

Lillith stood in the doorway, the storm whipping her hair wild, candlelight flickering behind her like a halo. Her nightgown clung to her frame in the rain, but her eyes—gods, her eyes—were wide and terrified and locked on him.

She’d seen it.

She’d seen him .

He tried to shift back. Pain lanced down his spine. He grit his teeth and forced it, golden light flaring around him as his body snapped and folded inward, leaving him kneeling in the mud, human again. Bleeding.

He staggered toward her. “Get inside,” he rasped.

“You’re hurt.”

“Not the worst I’ve had.” His voice was rough, but steady.

She didn’t wait for permission. She crossed the distance in three steps, reaching for him, trying to take his weight.

“You reckless idiot,” she whispered. “You shifted.”

He blinked down at her. “I what?”

“You shifted. Fully.” Her voice trembled. “I saw it. I saw you.”

And the way she said it—it wasn’t afraid. It wasn’t judgment.

It was awe.

The kind that came from seeing something you’d only read about in storybooks and half-believed might be real. The kind that curled into your bones and stayed there.

He swallowed. “Well. I didn’t want you to have all the dramatic moments.”

A shaky laugh escaped her, and she looped her arm around his waist, helping him toward the porch. He let her. It wasn’t a matter of pride. It was survival. But more than that—it was her.

Inside, the storm battered the cottage, rain slashing at the windows like knives, thunder crawling across the sky. The magic of the house held strong, but it hummed at the edges like it wasn’t sure how much longer it could stand.

She helped him to the couch, then stepped back, eyes flicking down to the blood soaking through his shirt.

“I’ll get the salves,” she said, voice tight.

He nodded, but stayed silent, listening to her retreat into the kitchen.

The wound throbbed, sharp and hot. Not fatal. But enough to remind him how fast everything could change.

That hadn’t been an ordinary storm beast. That thing had weight. Purpose. Rage.

“Someone sent that storm on purpose, to us,” he hissed through clenched teeth as he tried to not move too much.

Lillith looked worried for once, and he didn’t like that. He liked her answer even less.

“Thaloryn.”

The fae prince didn’t do anything halfway. And he damn sure didn’t send smoke wolves as weather decorations.

“This is about the curse. About us,” she almost whispered.

Dominic leaned back, letting his head hit the cushion. His chest ached. Not just from the wound. From everything .

The shift. The storm. Her eyes when she looked at him—not with pity or fear, but something that looked dangerously like belief.

She’d seen the lion. And she hadn’t run.

He closed his eyes and listened to the storm.

Somewhere deep in his chest, something settled. Something old. Something instinctual.

Whatever this was—it was bigger than both of them now.

And it wasn’t going away.

The question was why?