Tristan
He sat on the edge of the guest bed with the cuff marks bright on his wrists. The cottage smelled of bread, wool, and clean water. It should have calmed him. It didn't.
"Leverage," Aiden had said.
It was the same word the miners used when guards traded rations for obedience. It made the back of his neck go cold.
He did not want to be the weight that pulled friends apart. He did not want wolves he had only just met to look at him and see a bell hung on a gate. He did not want Bran to look at him and see the reason a brother chose a threat over a welcome.
Shannon had said, "You are mine until you tell me otherwise." The words had steadied him in the moment. Now they carried heat and trouble in equal measure.
He rubbed his wrists and tried to tell himself the same thing he told himself in the pit. You're not what they call you. You are what you choose to do next. That had kept him alive in the pit. It would keep him now.
