Tristin had never felt more like crying in her entire life. She’d been out there since the sun came up, practicing her banshee skills with various pack members. Once again, she tried to access her magic. As always, she could feel that power stirring within her; she could feel it building and gathering but, when she opened her mouth…all that came out was a hoarse shout.

“You’re not trying.”

Tristin rounded on Tate, advancing on him with dark intentions. He backed up, smirking, hands raised.

“Not trying? I have no voice. I’ve been screaming for hours. I feel like I’ve been gargling razor blades,” Tristin said, her voice cracking. Tate bit his lip, but she could see him trying not to laugh. She lunged at him. “I’m going to murder you,” she promised, taking him to the ground while he snickered.

“What was that? I can’t hear you.”

“You’re so dead,” she growled, straddling him.

For a brief moment, Tristin maintained the upper hand, then she was on her back, her hands trapped above her head. As she watched, Tate’s feline eyes started to glow, features partially shifting, claws pricking at her wrists. “All right, banshee. Let’s play.”

Tristin was no match for Tate’s supernatural strength, and he knew it. He stared down at her, grinning with sharpened teeth, and a look in his eye that let her know hurting her wasn’t precisely the kind of play he had in mind. “What are you going to do now?” he murmured, leaning close enough for her to feel his breath on her face.

She blinked up at him, not sure exactly how she felt about the situation. Her body and her brain seemed to be of two minds about being pinned beneath a shape-shifting panther who could easily crush her. She licked her lower lip, swallowing the sudden lump in her already sore throat. His mouth hitched up on one side, giving her the barest hint of a smile.

She was not thinking about kissing Tate. She wasn’t. Was she? He’d kissed her brother, she reminded herself. Of course, so had Quinn and she’d kissed him. It seemed her brother had somehow inadvertently marked every available male in their circle. There weren’t enough therapists in the world for this line of thought. Besides, she’d just kissed Quinn. Why was she even thinking about Tate? She shook her head, trying to stop her wicked thoughts before they could fly even further off track. Why was she even thinking about this? Quinn’s soul was sick. Demonic wolves were heading their way. There was something seriously wrong with her.

Tate’s smile bled to a grin, and Tristin wondered if her scent had changed. His toothy smile was enough to kill any stray feelings she’d had for the panther. Now, she wanted to knock that smirk off his face. She struggled just enough to make him think she was trying before going limp beneath him, gazing into his eyes and tilting her head, mirroring that hint of a smile. His hands loosened incrementally, leaning closer. “Giving up already, banshee?”

“Nope,” she brought her forehead up to smash against his nose, slipping her hands from his loosened grip and driving her knee between his legs. This time it was him who gave a hoarse shout as he rolled off her, his hands between his legs. “Huh, guess shifter strength didn’t make that any less useful.”

“God, you’re such a bitch. I love it,” he grunted.

Isa’s head jerked up from where she was running drills with Donovan across the yard. “Tristin!” Isa shouted, looking exasperated as she saw Tate writhing on the ground.

Tristin stood, dusting grass off her butt and shrugging at her alpha. “What? He started it. It’s not my fault he let his guard down during his creepy attempt at flirting.”

Tate glared at Tristin from the ground. She leaned over him, her voice cutting out as she offered him her palm. “Need a hand?”

“No. I think I’ll just stay here for a bit,” he said, wincing.

“Have it your way,” she said before looking to Isa. “I need a break. I’m going to get a drink.”

She was in the house, halfway through slamming down a bottle of cold water when Harlow drifted in. She wore one of Rhys’s t-shirts and a pair of borrowed sweatpants. Isa had offered to take the girl shopping, but she’d just stared out the window until Isa gave up. She was too curvy to fit in any of the other girls’ clothing, but Harlow didn’t seem like she was in a place where clothing was high on her list of priorities.

Tristin looked to the backdoors, wondering if she could exit before the girl took note of her presence. She knew Harlow had been through a lot, but she gave Tristin the creeps. Sometimes Harlow seemed fine. She would interact a bit, mostly with Tate or, surprisingly, Donovan. But most often, you could find her sitting at the coffee table with stacks of colored paper, maniacally creating her origami army, setting each of her creations in a line, arranging and rearranging until they were just right. She rarely spoke above a whisper, and when she did, it was often to people who weren’t there.

While most of the pack worried about when Mallory might show some sign of the madness her brother swore she had, Tristin kept a close eye on Harlow. The girl took a seat at the breakfast nook and stared at her hands, mouth forming words but no sound. Tristin hurried to drain the rest of her water so she could escape.

“But she’s doing it wrong,” Harlow hissed at her hands. Okay, then, Tristin thought, easing her way towards the back door. Even Tate was preferable to this level of lunacy.

Harlow’s head jerked up, her eyes tracking Tristin across the kitchen. “You’re doing it wrong.”

“Okay,” Tristin said, smiling until her face hurt. “Then, I’ll do it better,” she promised, figuring it was better to agree than engage.

“Your banshee won’t scream because you won’t let her.”

Tristin wasn’t sure what was more unnerving: Harlow referring to Tristin’s banshee like a second person, or that Harlow appeared to be speaking to Tristin’s banshee without her knowledge. Tristin stood there, warring with herself. She should just walk away. There was nothing good that could come from this.

“What do you mean?” Tristin asked, walking to the table and sitting down.

Harlow stared at her hands, opening and closing her fingers until Tristin was fighting not to grab the girl’s hands to hold them still. “Your magic works when you align yourself with it. Your vibrations need to harmonize…but you’re afraid.”

Tristin’s brows raced towards her hairline, fighting not to roll her eyes. Just what she needed, some hippie yoga witch telling her that her banshee wouldn’t scream because she wasn’t harnessing her qi. “Oh. Okay.”

Harlow lifted her head enough to glower at Tristin. “I know you think I’m crazy. I probably am, but I’m not wrong about this. The Grove’s teaching methods are barbaric but highly effective,” she confessed, her voice flat. “You’re too afraid of your banshee, too scared she’ll overtake you if you give her consent, but you have to trust in your magic.”

“How?” Tristin asked, despite herself. “Everybody tells me that my banshee feeds off fear and anger; how can letting her have control be a good thing?”

“You were born to do this,” Harlow said. “You have to stop thinking about it. You have to trust that your banshee knows when it’s time to scream.”

“I don’t know if I can do that.”

“You will,” Harlow promised.

Tristin tapped her fingers on the side of her water bottle. “How do you know that?”

Harlow shrugged. “Because, if you don’t, then we all die.”