Page 27 of Mane Squeeze
Somewhere deep in his chest, something settled. Something old. Something instinctual.
Whatever this was—it was bigger than both of them now.
And it wasn’t going away.
The question was why?
12
LILLITH
The cottage hummed with the storm’s aftermath. Candlelight flickering shadows across worn wood and crooked shelves, the scent of ozone and charred magic still clinging to the air. Outside, the wind had dulled to a restless whisper, rain tapping softly on the roof like a heartbeat slowing down after a sprint.
Lillith stood in the kitchen doorway, pressing a cool cloth to her chest as if it could quiet the thunder still rolling in her ribs.
He’d shifted.
Fully.
Not half-shifts or aggressive snarls that flickered with beast beneath the skin. No, this had been all lion—fur and fury and golden light, slamming into that shadow like the embodiment of rage and protection. And it had been for her.
She found him where she’d left him, half-sunk into the couch cushions, his eyes closed but brows still tight with pain. His shirt clung to him in bloodied patches, the claw mark across his chest raw and angry beneath it.
“You need to lie flat,” she said gently, setting her supplies on the table beside him.
His eyes cracked open. “You gonna yell at me for saving your life?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
He huffed a laugh, then winced. “Okay, maybe no laughing. That hurts.”
“Then don’t be funny.” She knelt beside him, careful and clinical, but the sight of him, strong and wounded, still trying to be cocky, it made her have to steady herself for a moment.
“You shifted,” she whispered, not meaning to say it out loud.
“You keep saying that like I did it on purpose,” he muttered. “It’s not usually something I can just flip on like a light switch.”
She hesitated, soaking a strip of charmed linen in calming balm. “Then why now?”
He looked at her then—really looked—and something unspoken passed between them.
“You were in danger,” he said simply.
That was it. No posturing. No joke. Just truth.
Her throat tightened.
She reached forward and peeled the fabric of what was left of his shirt away. He didn’t even flinch. She cleaned the wound with a careful touch, the skin around it already reacting to the salve with faint sparks of gold where his magic tried to knit him back together.
He watched her in silence, heat in his gaze that made her hands shake just slightly.
“You always this good at patching people up?” he asked, voice quieter now.
“No,” she murmured. “Usually it’s enchanted rats or a rogue dryad with splinters. You’re the first person who’s bled on my sofa.”
“Glad I could be your first.”
She wanted to be annoyed but couldn’t stop the smile from twitching at her lips. “Don’t make me hex you. You’re already half-dead.”
