Ridoc stumbles backward on my left—shoved aside—and I don’t need to look to know whose muscled arm now brushes my shoulder. The scent of mint somehow steadies my heartbeat. Jeremiah unsheathes his shortsword. “Make it stop! Can’t any of you see? The thoughts won’t stop!” His panic is palpable, clogging my own throat. “Do something,” I beg Xaden, glancing up at him. His unwavering, lethal focus is on Jeremiah, but his body tenses at my plea, poised, ready to strike.
