She belonged.

He looked up at her, haggard, his eyes narrowed, and for a moment she was sure he was about to snap at her not to question him. “I don’t want to do it without a plan in place,” he said evenly. “You can understand that, can’t you?”

Misaki was tempted to obey. That was what she would have done, back when she was still telling herself that her husband wasn’t her responsibility.

“Well, once you figure it out, maybe you should confront the person—or spirit—or whoever it is. Cleanse your anger.” “Maybe.” “I bet that after that, you’ll be able to rest, and so will Mamoru.”

Misaki knew with heart-dropping certainty that she had done this. In sleep, her jiya had risen against Takeru, as it had once risen against his unborn offspring inside her. And he was bleeding from the neck. The poison in her had grown out of control.

jiya activated, but it had never happened to her before. Her sleeping jiya had raised ice all along the walls of the room, forming long spikes that pointed inward toward the futon.

Breaking the spike with her jiya, she sat up and looked around her in horror. She had heard of sleep-forming, the phenomenon in which a jijaka dreamed so vividly that their

It wasn’t just Izumo’s body temperature that was pleasant. Misaki had come to love the feel of his nyama—not hard but fluid, never grating against her coldness, but swirling about it until slowly, they melted together and both became liquid. He brought back a long gone feeling of being adaptable, fluid, and free.

Siradenyaa,