Brooks' POV
Brooks had never been the kind of guy to sit still and listen.
He liked movement, liked action, liked doing something. He liked staying busy.
But right now, as Nyx sat across from him, her amber eyes glowing like firelight, her voice weaving a story so full of mystery and fate—
He couldn't do anything but watch her.
Listen.
Hold onto every single word.
Raised by Witches.
"I didn't know I was a wolf," Nyx said, her fingers tracing lazy patterns against the fabric of her sleeve. "Not until I was sixteen. Even then I didn't understand I was different. Most witches start developing magic at 16. Nothing. I couldn't even do simple spells. I thought maybe I was a late bloomer or wasn't destined to be strong. Maybe I hadn't studied hard enough. It never crossed my mind that I couldn't do magic or that I wasn't a witch."
Brooks frowned, leaning forward. "You thought you were a witch?"
