Page 178 of Shifting Hearts 1
He lowered his gaze to the tooth resting in my palm, his eyes tracing the pale curve as though it might vanish if he blinked. When his gaze lifted back to mine, there was something fierce and wounded in it. “And what will you do with it?”
“I’ve carried it this long,” I said, forcing my voice to stay steady despite the storm inside me. “Might as well hear its story.”
I saw the hesitation flicker in his eyes — the war raging beneath the surface of his skin. Then something inside him gave way. Not with a shatter, not with a cry, but a slow, almost imperceptible unravelling, like a blade sliding free from a sheath.
“I’m tired,” he said, his voice rough and low, scraped raw by years of silence. “I was never meant to be a guardian. The Wyrd made me one. Forced me to watch. To kill. To protect. Always circling. Always hunting. Never resting.”
His voice cracked, and in that break I saw it — the wolf in chains. Not chains of iron, but far crueller ones: chains of purpose, of duty, of endless knowledge and endless loneliness.
“I’ve wanted to die for a long time,” he admitted, his eyes flickering away like he was afraid the cavern itself might carry the words back to him.
“Then why hadn’t you?” I asked softly, though my heart already throbbed with the answer.
His eyes found mine, steady and unflinching now. “Because the Wyrd wouldn’t let me. Until now.”
The weight of his words settled like stones in my chest, heavy and final. He thought I was his executioner. Maybe I was.
“I won’t kill you, Brannon,” I said, the promise slipping out before I could stop it.
“You already saw it,” he said. His voice was quieter now, but there was no less truth in it. “In the threads. When we touched.”
“Yes, but fate isn’t fixed. And you didn’t want to die. Not really.”
“You don’t know that,” he said. “You can’t.”
I reached for him, my hand trembling. He flinched at the movement, but he didn’t pull away, not completely, so I was able to press the tooth into his palm.
The burn caught us both like a shard of lightning — agony and ecstasy braided together, electric fire tearing through skin and bone, magic singing deep beneath our flesh. I didn’t let go, and neither did he.
“You gave up your thread once,” I whispered, my voice barely holding steady. “Maybe it’s time to take it back.”
“And if it kills us both?” he asked, the words rough as sandpaper.
“Then at least we go together.”
He stared at me, stunned.
Then came the faintest twitch — the tiniest tilt of his mouth, a flicker of something too human to deny.
“We’re a terrible match,” he murmured.
“Disastrous,” I replied.
“Doomed.”
“Completely.” I leaned in, my breath catching on the word. “And yet.”
Brannon closed his eyes.
For once, he let the silence settle.
No pacing. No snarling.
Just quiet.
The tooth cooled between us.
And in that quiet, the Wyrd began to weave again.
