Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 54811 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54811 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
“You think I didn’t want to?” His hands flex in front of him like he’s struggling not to reach for me. “Your foster family were loyalists, and they started to quietly accuse the Duke of Lewellen of being disloyal to Navarre when he’s the one who represents Tyrrendor in the Senarium. They wouldn’t allow him to bring me with him for a quarterly well-being check. They said marked ones shouldn’t congregate.”
“You think I don’t know that?” I shout as the heat within me starts to burn. “Do you know how many of us were fostered alone?”
“Three,” he answers quietly.
“Three.” I nod as the burn starts to consume me. “Me. Sloane. Julianne. The rest of you were all paired up. Liam and Xaden. Bodhi and Merielle. You and—”
“Tyce,” Garrick finishes for me. “I know.”
“And sure, he’s seven years younger than you are, but at least you had someone. Maybe we weren’t friends, but you were the only marked one I saw for three years, and you just…left.” Why the hell am I even saying any of this? My mouth snaps shut, and I would give anything to take it all back, to reach into his head and remove the last thirty seconds—hell, the last ten minutes from his mind.
He can’t know that anyone has the power to hurt me, let alone him.
“Imogen, I’m so sorry.” He reaches for me, and I retreat with a quickness. “It wasn’t by choice. I would never consciously do anything that would hurt you.”
He doesn’t even have to try. The result is the same.
“Enough of this. Are you willing to bond me?”
Absolutely, if it gets me out of this situation.
“Excellent choice.” Her voice is edged with menacing glee.
The first ripple of boiling energy hits, and I fall to my knees, gasping for air. Then it overpowers me again and again in waves so close, I can’t feel my own heartbeat through the pain. Heat burns me alive from the inside out without sign of respite, and there is no end to the fire. It’s going to kill me. There’s no way to survive the pressure trying to pop my head open or the flames devouring me one bone at a time.
“Imogen?” Garrick crouches beside me.
“Don’t touch me!” He’ll catch fire as surely as I am. An indescribable force fills my ribs, then expands, rearranging everything within me as it consumes the fibers of my being. Molten power incinerates whatever I used to be and forges something entirely new. Every breath feels hotter than the last, as if I’m inhaling pure, unfettered energy—
Glane.
“She’s channeling,” I manage to say between sharp, heaving breaths, my fingernails cutting into my palms.
“Not possible.” Garrick shakes his head, putting his face right in front of mine. At least he’ll be the last thing I see. “You haven’t flown yet.”
“She is!” I scream, becoming just another bellowing voice in a forest full of death.
“Breathe,” he orders in a booming voice I’ve only heard him use on his squad. “It’s going to pass, I promise, but you have to breathe.”
I focus on his eyes and pull in one scorching breath after another, trying to remember what Mom and Katrina told me about this.
Ground.
“I have to ground.” I close my eyes and focus on the foyer of my childhood home at Hardincourt. The paintings on the wall. The flight jackets hanging by the door. The sun-bleached hardwood floor. I picture it all so vividly in my mind that I can almost smell bread baking in the kitchen. Then I turn toward the front door, where orange, smelted power flows into my sanctuary, and mentally kick the thing closed.
Power rushes by the windows, filling the panes, but it doesn’t bust through.
I take my first painless breath and open my eyes to find Garrick watching me, his eyes wide and mouth agape. Rage boils over anew. “I’m going to kill her.”
“How in Malek’s name did you know how to ground?” His hands hover near my face, but he doesn’t make contact.
I slowly rise to my feet, testing to make sure I didn’t lose any limbs in that excruciating little ritual. My body is no worse for wear if I don’t count the tiny, bloody cut on my palm from my own fingernail. “Because unlike the vast majority of marked ones, I’m a third-generation legacy rider.”
“Your mom taught you.” He nods solemnly and stands.
“And Katrina.” I turn away from him and stalk toward the giant dead oak and the field just beyond it. Power hums in my veins, roams under my skin, simultaneously discombobulating and yet the most natural thing in the world. “You delivered your message. Now go.”
I am as I was always meant to be.
“I’m not walking off after you just went through that,” Garrick argues, following behind me.
“You are mine.” She sounds awfully pleased with herself.