She could feel the rumble of his voice through her tentative touch, the low sound reverberating through her chest like the deep hum of a cello string stroked by a bow. Tension melted away from her; she felt her muscles slacken, liquid with relaxation, beneath a familiar comfort that she still couldn’t name. Though the girl couldn’t remember it now, she’d once been taught that some birds—indistinguishable from one another by appearance alone—could find their families by listening for the unique song of their loved ones. They didn’t need to see a face, for in a sea of identical creatures exteriors had no meaning. But the language shared by lovers . . . such an irreplaceable and personal thing brought them together again and again, no matter the distance. They heard that special voice, and knew. For Losa, this incredible masculine tone—textured like rough leather and warm as embers—called to something beyond superficial recognition. She decided that she did not need the clarity to explain why she should react so powerfully to Hurricane’s presence. For now, it was enough to listen . . . and trust that her heart responded for a reason.

She jolted slightly at his caress over her brow—but it was from his sudden acceptance of her contact, not repulsion. The skittish demon could have just as easily shoved the forest spirit away, or turned his fangs into the sable hairs of her nape, yet he chose to hold her closer. As if she were precious. A trembling thread of hope quivered in Losa’s heartstrings. Perhaps their bizarre meeting would continue this way: one important, risky decision after another, until they either escaped this folie a deux or collapsed into insanity together.

Because those were the only options they had. They were linked, inexplicably, impossibly, inarguably, and the silt-colored princess knew that to try and break free on her own would only seal her doom. Losa much preferred the chance of recovery, a slim as that possibility might be.

She sighed into the midnight tapestry, unable to remove herself from the incredible cologne that stirred up floods of aching nostalgia. Why was it that scents were so closely linked to memory? How could the dark bird dare to think she knew this signature, even though there was no way to prove she did? She could name each individual note that contributed to the overall aura of Hurricane—amber, rain-drenched earth, crisp pine—but still she could not conjure his face in the tatters of her broken past. “Do what?” Losa asked softly, closing her eyes against the silk of Hurricane’s obsidian fur. “Send you into spirals of self-doubt? Make you question the reality you’re breathing in? I don’t know how I do it. You do the same to me. I know you from somewhere. You know me. Why does that have to hurt?” Here frustration crept back into her lyrics, heating them with righteous fury. “If we were normal, we would be rejoicing to see each other. But we’re not. Something’s wrong.”

Her throat caught on her next words, the clearness that had alighted upon her consciousness slipping away again. “You’re not pretending, right? You wouldn’t lie to me . . . would you?”