CORALINA'S POV The tropical humidity trapped within the private cocoon of Clyde’s shadow-aura thrums with a heavy, protective static, shielding my skin from the toxic atmosphere of the crypt. Behind me, the massive, broad-shouldered mountain of muscle that is my mate remains anchored to my flank, his long bronze arms locked around my waist with an unyielding, frantic possessiveness. His breath hits my neck in hot, concussive pulses, his inner beast still vibrating with the feral aftermath of the illusion that tried to break me. But the phantom of the helpless stray is dead, thoroughly dissolved by the sovereign weight of his devotion and the amnesia resolution that has permanently locked my mind into place. I look at the ancient blood-altar before us, its deeply grooved basalt columns weeping that liquid emerald light, pumping the toxic curse up through the mountain vents. The high-pitched, parasitic frequency of the relic continues to claw at the air, a desperate attempt by the pu
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