Page 116 of Mate of a Monster

What the fuck?

My arms cut through the water but hit nothing. My boots kick, finding no ground. For one sick second I think this is it, that I finally survived everything only to drown like some incompetent fool because Fate got bored and decided she wanted a laugh.

Then, I see it.

A crack of light above me, thin and wavering, and I throw myself toward it so hard my muscles scream. My lungs burn, pressure swelling inside them until it feels like they might rip clean through my ribs. Still, I push harder. Up. Up. Fucking up.

My hands break free first, then my head, and I drag in a breath so violent it turns into coughing before I’ve even finished taking it.

Cold, filthy, glorious air.

I choke and claw at the bank, fingers sinking into wet sand and old ash as I haul myself out of the water like something half-dead and too mean to stay there. My body hits the ground hard and I roll flat on my back, coughing as I stare into the ugly ass sky, recognizing it instantly.

It’s dirty and bruised with that permanent shade of ruin only known on Exile.

“The fuck, Legend?” I scream, my voice ripping out of my throat and making me wince.

The world tilts when I sit up too fast, and I clutch at the ground for balance. Water spills from my hair down my back, soaked clothes clinging to every inch of me. I wipe at my mouth with the heel of my palm while trying to get my bearings, gagging at the salty flavor on my lips.

Exile. I’m back on fucking Exile Island.

Only—

The shoreline is wrong, or maybe right depending on how you look at it.

There’s no smooth pathways carved by the Nightkin’s neat little obsession with order. No rebuilt stone, or polished stretches of dark beach made beautiful by force and rich, dark tar.

There’s no structure in the center or calm gifted walking around with dark masks made of my man’s magic.

No, this is the Island from before him.

Chaotic. Raw. Bloody. My eyes fall to the dried streaks scattered in the sand.

Wind tears over the cliffs with teeth, carrying the scent of brine, rot, and that familiar air of violence that makes the whole place feel less like exotic land and more like a living wound.

My stomach twists.

“What kind of fucking shit is this?” I mutter, pushing myself up onto one knee. “An illusion right when I was about to—”

The hairs on the back of my neck stand. My head snaps over my shoulder, getting smacked in the face by my wet hair in the process.

Something is coming.

The feeling hits before the sound does: a pressure change in the air that makes my spine tingle. I’m on my feet in the next breath, every wet muscle in my body protesting as I pivot toward the hillside.

Instinct takes over, boots tearing through the bloodied sand as I head up the slope.

“Nightkin?”

I’m met with silence, but worse, I feel it.

Empty. I feel fucking empty.

“No.” My chest seizes as stupid wounds, both old and new, rear their pathetic heads.

He wouldn’t toss me out again, would he?

Didn’t strip me of our bond again, did he?