Page 98 of Claimed

Little hunter? I probe hesitantly.

His face turns slightly, though his gaze stays on Rowan and the Glass.

You are still little in my eyes.

I swallow, wince, and aim the thought sharper than I feel.

Still inconsequential?

His face twitches. Barely. But I see it, then I almost smile when he doesn’t answer.

Coward.

This time his mouth almost curves. Then Rowan speaks, slicing clean through whatever almost happened between us. ‘The Glass is reacting to her blood again.’

Valentin’s attention sharpens, his massive chest rising and falling. ‘It reacted when the Tower went dark.’

‘Yes. That was a rupture. This is worse.’

That gets even my exhausted attention. I shift on the pillows. Valentin turns immediately, one hand extending as if he can physically stop me from moving through sheer arrogance.

Stay still, Eira.

I glare at him. He glares back harder.

Being half-dead does not make you less irritating, evidently, he tells me.

I would answer, but my throat gives a warning pulse of pain, and for once in my life I decide against immediate verbal self-destruction.

Rowan moves closer to the Heartshard Glass. ‘When the Tower went dark, the Glass fractured because his blood recognised something through yours. The curse struck the mirror, the Tower, and the bloodline all at once. That was catastrophic, but it was uncontrolled.’

‘And now?’ Valentin asks.

‘Now the Glass is doing something.’

‘Specificity would be greatly appreciated right now, witch.’

Rowan aims a vicious glare his way, then she returns her focus to the Glass. ‘My most accurate guess, and yes, it’s a guess… is that it’s… counting.’

Silence falls so abruptly I hear blood drip from Valentin’s wrist onto the floor.

The red movement inside the fractured mirror sharpens.

At first, I think I am seeing veins. Then I realise they are lines.

Marks.

Tiny black-red cracks racing across the inner surface of every shard, forming symbols, breaking apart, reforming with awful purpose. A circle appears in the largest piece of glass, then splits into five segments. One glows darker than the rest.

Valentin.

The mark at his throat pulses.

This time I see it properly. The lines are no longer red but nearly black, edged in crimson, spreading under his skin like ink dropped into water. They climb higher than before, touching the underside of his jaw.

Fear hits me so hard I forget to pretend I am angry.

Valentin feels it. His gaze cuts to mine, and through the bond, I ask what I cannot safely speak.