Blaze POV
Time was no longer a luxury I possessed.
It was bleeding out—quietly, mercilessly—just like the blood still soaking through my chest where Clare had stabbed me. The wound burned, but it was nothing compared to the panic clawing through my bones. Pain meant I was still alive. Pain meant I still had a body.
Clare's soul did not have that privilege.
Every second she lay unconscious, the banshee was feeding.
Not on her blood. Not on her flesh.
On her.
On the thing that made her breathe, feel, love, exist.
And once a banshee finished feeding, there was nothing left to retrieve.
No afterlife.
No resurrection.
No bargaining with demons, gods, or ancient powers.
You cannot trade for something that no longer exists.
Her precious soul was about to be taken from her.
