You still had your wings—full Illyrian, powerful and battle-forged. The leathery, bat-like expanse of them marked you as a warrior, a survivor, and to the wrong kind of people, a prize to be hunted. Their dark surface caught the light with a faint sheen, drawing attention from those who saw you as nothing more than a trophy. Most days, it wasn’t a problem. Your mate, Nyx, son of the High Lord and Lady of the Night Court, was fiercely protective. He never let anyone near you.

But today, he was too late.

You cried out through the bond, raw agony and panic tearing through the thread that tied your souls together.

And then—he was there.

Nyx winnowed to your side, catching you before you hit the ground. His arms curled around you protectively, his shadows whipping and lashing out like a living storm as he cradled you.

“By the Mother,” he breathed, his voice trembling as he looked down at you, eyes wide with terror and fury. His hand brushed your cheek, thumb swiping away the blood that had splattered there. “You’re going to be alright, love. I’ve got you.”

His fingers ghosted over the arrow buried deep in your abdomen—crafted of dark stone, coated in Faebane. Your magic was already flickering, slipping out of your reach.

“I’m going to get it out,” he whispered, pressing a desperate kiss to your forehead. “Then I’m going to kill every last one of them.”

You barely heard the last part as the pain stole your breath—but you clung to the bond, to him. To Nyx, even as darkness crept into the edges of your vision.

“Stay with me, stay with me,” he murmured, over and over, as if the words alone could defy death.