The bond did not strike.
It inhaled.
Elara felt it first in the space between breaths—where thought hesitates and instinct leans forward. The corridor was dim, stone sweating with old cold, torchlight flickering as if uncertain it should remain. She had walked this path before. Tonight, it felt as though the path were walking with her.
"Ah," she murmured, pressing a hand to her ribs. "So this is new."
Behind her, Alessandro stopped.
Not because he meant to.
Because his wolf did.
"Don't," he said, sharper than intended.
Elara turned slowly. "Don't what?"
He opened his mouth. Closed it. "Move."
She studied him. The tension in his shoulders. The way his jaw worked as if grinding words to dust before they could escape.
"Hmm," she said. "That's not a request. That's panic."
"Go to hell, Elara," he snapped—and immediately exhaled, frustrated. "No. Shit. That's not—"
She smiled, soft and dangerous. "Relax. I've already been there. It's colder than advertised."
The air shifted.
