The body was barely recognizable—twisted, blackened, reduced to ash, shape, and memory. What remained was less a man than the outline of one: a father, a mate, someone who had loved these women enough to die trying to save them.
Five words. Flat. Hollow. Delivered in a voice scraped clean of everything but grief.
Aaron swallowed.
“We’ll bury him,” he said quietly. “Properly.”
Mystic’s head snapped up, luminous blue eyes wide. “We don’t have time. You said more could come—”
“We’ll make time.” His voice was steady, unyielding. “Your father died protecting his family. That deserves honor.”
Silence stretched between them.
Then, barely above a whisper, “Thank you.” Then a proper introduction:
“My name is Mystic. This is my mother, Helen.”
Names. Trust.
Aaron turned to Ash and Raven. “
