The salt of the Atlantic still stung Hailey's skin, a sharp contrast to the unnatural heat radiating from Baphomet's body as they drifted. The ocean was vast, a dark mirror of the star-filled void they had just escaped, but for the first time in her life, the horizon didn't feel like a boundary. It felt like an invitation.
Baphomet's wings were heavy with seawater, acting as a dark, leathery raft that kept them buoyant against the rhythmic pull of the tides. He held Hailey against his chest, his chin resting atop her head. The rhythmic thump-thump of his heart was the only thing grounding her as the adrenaline of the lab's explosion began to ebb, replaced by a crushing, bone-deep exhaustion.
"We can't stay in the open water," Baphomet rumbled, his voice vibrating through her ribs. "The Syndicate's physical assets—the coast guard, the private cutters—they don't need the Weaver to find a god-sized heat signature in a cold ocean."
