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Sentinel moves up beside me, his wings tucked beneath his skin, but I catch the slight narrowing of his eyes as his attention settles on Echo. A faint pulse of celestial power brushes against the bond between us, telling me the heavenly prick is getting a read on her.

He stays quiet beside me, watching while Scar does the same from across the yard.

I should probably be paying attention to whatever the fuck they’re picking up. Instead, my eyes keep finding her mouth, then her jaw, and the stubborn way she sets it every time Coil tightens his grip on her arm.

My hellhound pushes beneath my skin again.

Yeah. I fucking noticed her too.

“You were at the tear,” Raze says. “Talk.”

“I felt it miles away,” she says, her voice low and even, no tremor in it despite the half circle of supernatural muscle currently deciding whether she lives past tonight. “Whatever made that thing wasn’t natural. I came to see what it was. That’s it. That’s the whole story.” Her gaze shifts, landing on me, and my hellhound immediately pushes up beneath my skin. Instinct sends a growl toward my throat, the same warning I’ve used a thousand-fucking-times, but nothing comes out. My jaw locks as the empty space where my voice used to be hits me all over again.

She keeps staring.

Great.

The first woman to catch my attention in fuck knows how long, and I can’t even tell her to stop fucking looking at me.

Except my body hasn’t caught up with that little problem yet.

A smart-ass comment is already sitting on my tongue, something about staring being rude and her owing me a drink if she plans on keeping it up, and I open my mouth without thinking. My lungs pull in air, my tongue moves, my throat tightens around words I’ve spent my entire life throwing around whenever the fuck I feel like it…

Nothing comes out.

I stop with my mouth still open, irritation hitting first because for one stupid second my brain tries to convince me I somehow fucked it up. So I push harder, forcing more air through my throat, my jaw tightening as I try to shove the words past whatever Malgrave did to me.

A rough scrape catches deep in my throat.

That’s it.

No words.

No voice.

Barely even a fucking sound.

My hand comes up and clamps around my neck as anger burns hot beneath my skin. I swallow hard, work my jaw, clear my throat out of habit, and try again because apparently some stubborn part of me still thinks if I push hard enough, I can force the bastard thing to work.

Another broken rasp scratches its way out.

Fuck!

I slam my mouth shut, nostrils flaring as hellfire rolls through my chest. My hellhound surges with it, just as pissed as I am, and I feel the beast try to force a growl up behind my ribs.

That dies too.

The frustration hits so fucking hard I have to curl my hands into fists to keep from putting one through the nearest wall.

I understood what Malgrave was doing. I stood there and felt him rip the roar out of my hellhound, felt the bark disappear, the growl, then every last piece of my own-fucking-voice.

I fucking agreed to it because the alternative put my brothers in the firing line. But knowing it was gone while that gray fucker had his hand around my throat is nothing compared to this—this is reaching for something without thinking and finding an empty-fucking-space where it used to be.

How many times a day do I talk without deciding to?

How many insults do I throw at Sentinel before breakfast?

How many times do I yell across the yard, laugh at some stupid shit Ruckus says, call for a brother, answer when someone says my fucking name?