After their last tête à tête, Ezekiel had learned to be careful of his tone and his language around his sister. By imitating their father’s mannerisms, his approach to things, the boy hoped she might find him to be an equally strong source. He had, after all, chased her into the very depths of the wild. This was why he had emerged, this thing of sinew and blood and bone, this thing that resembled a man but was something else; less or more, he did not know.
And this thing that was her brother saw the panic and understood why it was his father had chosen him. Amber eyes, bird-like in their intensity, locked onto her face. His hands forced this to meet his own. He had never been forceful with her before, but he needed her now to understand—if she would not listen, he would make her body listen. This was the only thing he knew how to do in such a situation. Without releasing her, he closed the distance between their faces so that their foreheads were touching. “I won’t let anyone run you out, and I won’t let you leave.”
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