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Magnus linked his hands behind his neck the second he was out of that awful fucking room, craning his head back and breathing through the urge to be sick. He couldn’t lose his breakfast if he was busy staring up at cave drops and spires.
A Wolflord, Bordoroth’s wild and majestic beauty personified, reduced to a floor mat.
The fact that it was lying in Thodelebor once more was insult to injury, since the only way it could’ve been done was outside of the Westrealm while the person was stuck in their wolf form. Otherwise, the pain would be too great, too horrific, to keep the shift. He and his Uncle Caius, maybe Thaddeus if he ever tried, were the only ones it could never happen to.
An avalanche of guilt over his Imperial status, his ability to use his power anywhere in Bordoroth and forever avoid such a fate, tumbled through him, churning.
He might actually throw up.
Pet, I… You should never have had to see that.
—No, but neither should you, Maggie—
Pet’s voice was unusually subdued, airy and far away. Buried deep, like he was curling in on himself. Mag wanted to go with him.
“Magnus?”
His lids slid closed at the honeyed rasp of Fern’s voice, and he dug inward, looking for a modicum of strength to face her. So off, so distracted, he didn’t realize she moved closer, didn’t smell her storm and petal scent, until her featherlight touch landed on his bicep.
“I’m so sorry.”
Sweet Sisters, he couldn’t take her gentleness. It carved itself on his ribcage and left a wound he was sure would never heal.
“Unless you skinned them, I don’t know why you’re apologizing.”
“Don’t do that,” she snapped, her fire already back to raging.
He could look at her. He could.
—Go on, lad—
Barely a whisper, from the furthest reaches of himself.
Mag opened his eyes and found Fern hovering in front of him, and it took everything not to gasp, or cry, or…
Shite, he didn’t even know.
“Don’t do what?” He wasn’t even a little proud of the crack in his voice, but he managed words and that was good enough.
“Push me away. Get defensive. Belittle my friendship.” She crossed her arms and looked away, that wee mace jutting from her grip on one side. “Assume I’m talking to you at all, when I might’ve been talking to Pet. Take your pick.”
Magnus almost fucking laughed. “Look who’s being defensive.” He reached out with one hand and snatched Fern up by the forearms, pulling her in until they were nose to nose. It was such a damned risk to tempt himself with that proximity, but the shocked O of her lips, her galaxy eyes going wide, was well worth it. “You can’t even admit you were being kind to me.”
She tensed, the band of her arms thrumming beneath his iron grip. For a second, Mag thought she was going to let loose and let him have it, and damned if he didn’t want to drown in the tempest that was Fern with every fiber of his being. Not only because she’d send him right into oblivion and he might finally be able to breathe or sleep or go five fucking minutes without experiencing every emotion his traitorous body had to offer.
No, he wanted it because it was her. Because she would be the one to deliver it.
Damn her.
Instead, Fern’s wings relaxed. Her shoulders dropped. In a blink, all of her weight, her trust, was resting in the palm of his hand.
“I-I’m afraid—” She swallowed, her gaze darting everywhere else as her teeth sank into her bottom lip.
“Go on,” he whispered, desperate for whatever kernel of her truth she was trying to share. For the welcome distraction from his own internal chaos. “I can take it.”
Her chest pressed against his knuckles with every ragged breath, soft and sharp at once. “I’m afraid that—”
—Maggie!—
