There was no right way to hit water from a hundred feet, but there were degrees of wrong, and Guinevere found the worst one.
The river punched like an ice god, forcing a shift on impact.
White flash. Fur gone. Lingerie pajamas back. The cold upgraded from bad to FUCK with a capital scream.
She hit a rock, then pinballed on more. Back. Shoulder. Forehead. Each one stole something. Air. Orientation. The ability to tell up from down.
Drowning in a freezing river after escaping a goddamn glowing cult of brothers who lived in a brown bachelor pad together was not the ending she had written for herself.
✦✦✦
Nicholas didn't hesitate.
His wolf tore across the cliff at full sprint, four hundred pounds of Alpha predator locked onto the white blur disappearing. The edge came and he launched.
A hundred feet of open air.
The shift ripped through him mid-fall. Claws retracted. Muscle condensed. Skin replaced fur.
