Book 6: What She Was Made for

Ella

At first I think I’m standing in front of Ryatt in a cold, stone-lined bedroom with nothing but a small bed and dresser to furnish the space. But, it’s not Ryatt. Glacier blue eyes look past me as the man turns around, his face drawn and brow pinched in an expression I know belongs to one man, and one man alone.

But Commander Westfall is so much younger. He can’t be much older than Ryatt in this–this vision. This dream. Westfall stalks forward, brushing past me. I turn, following his movements.

“This is madness,” Westfall says to the beautiful young woman sitting on the edge of the bed with a child sleeping in her lap. She combs her bruised and swollen fingers through the boy’s thick, dark curls, his own face peppered with fresh bruises. “You’re leaving, tonight!”

“You know I can’t.” Silver manacles on each wrist gleam in the light of the several candles, the skin beneath them scarred from years of burns from the silver. “You know he’d f