Nikolai

The clinic was too quiet.

I stood at the foot of Lorelei's bed, my hands clenched at my sides, my gaze fixed on her face. She was so pale—paler than I had ever seen her, her skin almost translucent in the harsh fluorescent light. If not for the slow rise and fall of her chest, the soft hum of the machine tracking her heartbeat, I would have thought she was dead.

The bond pulsed between us, weak but steady. She was still there. Still fighting. Still mine.

But the rage was a living ...