Chapter 5
Ryder was right. The porta potty stunk as badly as a constipated musk turtle. The stench, however, was instantly forgotten when I flipped open my locket and saw my mother’s familiar face on the mirrored surface inside.
It had worked. The fragment of rejected fated-mate energy my mother had poured into our lockets and into me twenty-odd years ago bound us together even though we weren’t in physical proximity. “Aiti.” I mouthed the word rather than saying it, well aware of Ryder’s wolf ears and their ability to invade stinky shelters.
“Skye,” my mother responded in kind, her eyes slitting in relief.
She was reading my lips, and I was reading her beak, an undertaking that wasn’t as difficult as it sounded. The skin at the corners of the tough keratin tightened and loosened, her
