Page 415 of Primal Bonds

A whiff of metal and decay.

Adric scanned the cell.

There. In the corner to his left, a shadow coalesced into a man-shape.

He whipped around. Hot, angry words crowded his throat, but he forced himself to speak calmly. “Prince Langdon?”

A whisper from the shadows. “You called me.”

“Yes. Rosana”—his voice broke—“she’s sick. She needs her river. You have to release her.”

“So you’re ready to negotiate?”

A muscle in Adric’s cheek worked. Inside, his cat crouched, ears back, tail swishing angrily.

“As long as you let her out of here. She has to get in the water. Even that pond outside would work.”

A dark chuckle. “Soon.” The shadows settled again.

“No! Wait, you thrice-damned bastard!” He pounded his fists against the stones. “She needs out, now.” But Langdon was gone.

Adric flung himself at the door. “Somebody, please!” He hammered on the wood between the iron straps. “Let Rosana out. She’s going to die in here.”

When no one came, he threw his whole body against the door, slamming into it again and again, uncaring of the iron straps. But the heavy wood withstood his battering, and when it was over, all he had to show for it were several burns on his arms and hands.

And he was still alone in the cell with Rosana.

He bit out a vicious curse and stood there, hands fisted on his hips, head hanging.

Rosana moved restlessly. “I’m so thirsty…”

“I’m here, baby.” He rinsed the burns in the cold water and then sat down, easing her head onto his lap. “It’s going to be all right, you’ll see. Just hold on a little longer. Here, drink.”

Dipping the cup in the trough, he brought it to her dry, cracked lips. She murmured something unintelligible and sucked at the cup’s lip like a baby, tiny sips that had half the water trickling down her jaw.

But he heard her swallow.

“That’s it. Drink some more.” He urged water on her until she shut her mouth and turned her head.

Rosana dreamed she was a small girl again, floating in Rock Run Creek. Water flowed around her, cool and silky. She sensed her mama and papai on either side of her, but her eyes were glued shut.

And she was so dry, like she’d swallowed a desert.

“Shift,” her papai said in Portuguese. “You can do it, minha pequena.”

My little one.

Nostalgia cramped her stomach. How long had it been since anyone called her that?

And then something twisted and she was an adult again, watching her younger self play with her parents in the creek. Her father, big and black-haired like her brothers, his strong, proud face marked by the jagged white scar he’d received from a fae. Her mother, fine-boned and creamy skinned, with a heart-shaped face and blue eyes that always seemed to be smiling.

Rosana’s throat burned. “I miss you, Mama,” she whispered—and just like that, she was back in her little girl’s body again.

“You can do it,” Ula encouraged in her lilting Irish accent. “Shift, Rosie darling.”

She whimpered. “I’m thirsty.”

“I know. But I can help,” her mama replied. “Just open your eyes.”

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