(Damien POV)
The council chamber doors closed behind us with a heavy thud that echoed in my chest.
Nova was trembling beside me—small, silent shakes she tried to hide. Her hand was still in mine. Warm. Fragile. Alive. The bond thrummed between us like a live wire—low, steady, pulling every time she took a breath. I felt it in my ribs. In my fingertips. In places I didn't want to admit.
She looked up at me.
Eyes wide.
Tired.
Scared.
"They hate me," she whispered again.
I didn't answer.
Because she was right.
They did.
Not all of them.
But enough.
The scarred councilman. The silver-haired woman. Even my father—silent, cold, watching her like she was a repeat of a nightmare he'd buried decades ago. My mother.
The woman who had bonded with my father outside the pack line.
The woman who had been left to die when the curse consumed her.
The woman whose death my father blamed on weakness.
On feeling.
On bonds that weren't supposed to exist.
I squeezed Nova's hand.
Once.
