Kanaf

Pressure built behind her scars. She stripped on a dark rooftop, tearing off mortal cotton, until all that remained were faded, red tennis shoes. Her scars peeled open, split by black strands of razor wire beneath her skin. Countless thin fibers exploded from the slits and filled the air like a black cloud. They flexed and Ryn arched her back at the exquisite sensation of an eighteen-month cramp finally stretched and soothed. With a thought, she wove her kanaf into sheets and smoothed them over her bare skin. She willed them soft and airy as a breeze and reveled in the sleek feel of them covering her—adjusting them to the same shape, color, and apparent texture of her hoodie and dark cargo pants.
She no longer felt naked. The kanaf was as much a part of her as a bird’s feathers.


Chapter 4, Page 54