Page 4 of Red Ruin

At least, he is until the same instinct that dragged me here whips his head to face the alley where I’m hiding.

“Guide,” he hisses.

When our eyes connect, there’s an oven-opening sensation. Just a flash of the heat he’s enduring fries my nerve endings and crisps the edges of my soul.

He’s inso much pain.

Before I can plan my next move, a firestorm obliterates every kobold on the block.

My throat clenches.

He’sreallyfucking strong.

Definitely an S-class.

“Guide,” he repeats in the craggy desperation that tugs my whole heart.

This is what I’m made for.

Any other Guide would have to compatibility test before risking soothing a Sentinel lost this deep in a rampage. The same quirk that all but guarantees I’ll never be able to imprint gives me freakishly high match rates.

Witheveryone.

The nagging resonance that begs me to ease his pain confirms that recent heartbreak hasn’t fixed me.

I’d bet my life that our match rate is seventy-five percent.

It’s the same with every Sentinel.

Forever five points shy of the eighty percent threshold you need to hit to imprint and form a permanent bond.

Always a Guide’s maid, never a bride.

Despite the fact that I’ll never be anyone’s number one, I’m damn good at what I do.

I step out of the alley, ready to take whatever this fireball can give me.

“Easy, Sentinel,” I croon, lifting my hands as I approach the human-shaped knot of flames and suffering. “I’m Iris. Want to let me look at that magic?”

“Guide,” he gutturally repeats what must be the only word he has right now.

I remind myself that a Sentinel would never hurt a Guide—at least, not on purpose—and move in to read his power.

We’re so compatible that I can taste this Sentinel’s heartbeat.

If he were healthy, I’d be able to tell his mood and status from across the street based on the motions of his soul-silks.

Silks are the magical nervous system—a glowing, physical representation of a transcendent human’s power and soul. They’re how we use our magic and how we connect to each other.

Ishouldsee those individual threads waving around the Sentinel like spiritual spaghetti, moving his flames. Even damaged, the soul-silks should be visible. Tangles and burns would tell me what’s wrong with him.

But hellfire torches the Sentinel’s aura.

Instead of the threads of his silks, all I can see is a messy blur of heat.

Silks aremuchmore sensitive than physical nerves.

That’s why all I can feel is the pulse of his pain.

---