CAINE
"Put Grace down," Lyre says.
"No."
No, Fenris echoes.
My arms tighten around my limp mate, clutching her to my chest. I refuse to let her go. My lips press against her temple, feeling how cool her skin is. Her breathing's shallow. Her pulse is weak.
The thought of letting her go—even for a moment—stabs through me like silver.
"Put. Her. Down," Lyre orders, as if commanding the Lycan King is something she can do on a whim. "Your emotions are all over her right now. She doesn't need your panic seeping into what little energy she has left."
"No."
Lyre's slitted eyes narrow further. "Do you want to kill her?"
Of course not. She's the other half of my soul. The fated connection I'd denied is burning bright in my chest, rattled by the thought of losing her.
Losing a mate is hard, but the thought of losing Grace is… impossible. Dying would be preferable.
