Claudia’s head was bowed down, and her lips were soundlessly moving. Praying?
I focused ahead of me. I couldn’t look at Tessa. I couldn’t let her see what I was feeling. I didn’t want her to know that my hope for finding her brother alive was next to nothing now.
The woods blurred past, and I followed the navigation. My gaze kept darting to the estimated time of arrival.
Only five more minutes.
If by some miracle Axel was still alive, we had some hope. Worst case, we could turn him. In life-or-death situations—when the person would die—we could bite him. He’d asked me about becoming a werewolf a few times, but I always told him no. That we didn’t change people as a rule. But those conversations—which I’d told Michael about—would suffice as consent. Probably. I hoped it would be enough.
Whatever happened after, we’d deal with that then.
Right at the next road, and we should be there.
Tessa gasped.
It wasn’t a normal gasp. It was so soft that it was barely audible. It was a special kind of noise that, when paired with this quiet hmm in the bond, meant that Tessa just had a vision.
She hadn’t been touching anything. Which meant it was one of her prophetic visions. The kind that warned her of something really bad happening.
With her brother in danger of dying, for a second, I thought that meant that the worst had happened. That he’d passed. That she’d seen his death.
But if that were true, then her heart would have shattered. She would be screaming and crying and breaking.
But she wasn’t. And that scared me even more.
I pushed the fear away. If I knew what her vision was, then I could protect her. I would find a way to stop whatever was going to happen. That’s why she had them.
But she didn’t say anything.
She always told me what happened.
I wished I could see what she saw, but our bond didn’t work that way. Whatever had been shown to her was always for her alone unless she shared it with me. “What did you see?”
Tessa gasped again. A second vision. That was okay. More help was never a bad thing.
And then she gasped again.
And again.
And again.
Her breath was coming in short, quick bursts, and her eyes were wide and glassy with fear. I wanted to grab her and shake her—to free her from whatever vision cycle she was stuck in—but I was driving dangerously fast. I couldn’t look away from the road for longer than a second, and I definitely couldn’t reach for her.
She gasped again, and I knew I had to do something.
What did you see? I asked
through our bond, hoping that would be enough.
Her face was pale, and her hands shook as she brushed her hair away from her forehead, tucking it behind her ear.
She looked at me, and the bond opened again. The hmm of the vision was gone, and what replaced it had my heart skipping a beat.
Guilt that weighed heavier than the moon.
Sorrow, but not at a loss, but resigned sorrow. One that was tinged with regret so dark and lonely that I wondered if I’d ever see the sun again.
And her fear—no. Not just her fear. It was terror. A brand of terror I was all too familiar with. It was the same all-consuming terror that I’d felt when I heard her heart stutter to a stop. Not once, but twice.