—and the voice gets right into him, through every wisp of thought and will, through everything that passes for sinew and blood. He can't refuse it; cannot say no. The sound that's torn from him is like a child's sob in the dark.

Only then does he turn his head the merest fraction, yellow eyes wide and oh, he thought he knew what outrage was, he thought he knew terror. The things Midnight's wearing, the tendrils woven around her—

He scuttles back against the wall. He can't lift a finger; can't transform to fight. His voice trembles. "Let go of me."

Shit, he can't even yell. Can't do anything but cower, and he refuses. Summoning everything he has, he gets to his feet, eyes riveted on Midnight, and full of subdued hate.