Losa’s breathing had been hard and rhythmic as she ran, efficient runner’s lungs lending her strength with each fearful inhalation. Now air lurched awkwardly in and out of her chest cavity, as if each breath were a wild animal struggling to escape the cage of her ribs. Her body was splayed awkwardly on the ground, the brittle scrape of dried pine needles tingling on one side and a searing fire shrieking over the other. She lifted her head gingerly to see what on earth could be causing the stripe of agony painted over her sable canvas—and hissed in a terrified whimper when that contraction of muscles rippled downward and pulled at her open wound. She reeked of blood. The thick copper flavor invaded her senses and pushed back the consciousness that had started to bud in her amethyst eyes. Shock pulled the sylph back as if she were a lost boat being dragged back out to sea. Losa didn’t even have the strength to claw for the shore.

Hear hearing quickly became nothing more than a static roar in her ears. The wild drum of her heartbeat lingered distantly in her eardrums, in the vague ticking in her throat, and Losa didn’t know the difference between that throbbing and the deep thud of massive paws as they struck the earth behind her. The girl’s body tensed instinctively. Her torn flesh seemed crawl. She’d been diligently programmed for fear . . . and that training clamped down her thoughts like a pair of ice-cold forceps. When you hear someone approach you, you’ll run—right, little princess? Because absolutely no one can be trusted. Especially me.

The first time the midnight monster spoke her name, Losa did not hear him. She was focused entirely on the chasm of pain carved into her exposed side, the canyon of bleeding meat that hurt so much Losa could only swallow tiny, starving gasps of air. All at once the lithe dancer wished for death—because if she were dead, she wouldn’t need to breathe, wouldn’t have to feel this mindless ache or that nameless horror blackening her mind. And she would never need to worry about meeting another wolf whose very presence struck such a resonance within her that it threatened to shatter the glass threads of her sanity. What were the odds of this ridiculous shambling coincidence, anyway? That the chocolate lass could be wandering aimlessly one minute, and running for her life the next?

Something cold touched the sensitive pad of one foreleg, jolting Losa from the fever-heat of her injury. Night-sky lanterns opened wide—when had she closed them?—and after a few seconds of adjusting to reality the dark damsel could make out the face of that obsidian knight. His muzzle was pressed with stunning gentleness against her wounded paw. The silt-colored fae was utterly prone, helpless, and Hurricane had taken the utmost care not to harm her further. Confused—

(touched)

Losa slowed her breathing, an inexplicable calm easing the rigor-mortis of her frozen muscles. She forced herself to focus on the disturbingly familiar slope of Hurricane’s noble brow, the broadness of his muzzle, the deep rich black of his shaggy coat. Then she was shivering, panic resuming as she realized something important. Losa did not want to die, not at all, and the general nameless fear plaguing her shrank down into the simple one that screamed over her bones and begged to be healed.

“Help,” she choked.