“Figured you could use something that didn’t come from an MRE packet,” she says, setting it on the narrow table beside the bed.
I push myself up. Every muscle protests. Not from any injury this time; purely from spending a week clambering around a mountain range. “You didn’t have to—”
“Yeah, I did.” She pulls the chair closer to the bed and drops into it. “Because if I left it to the men, you’d be eating cold rations and pretending you’re fine.”
“Iamfine.”
Her eyebrow arches. “Sure. And I’m the Queen of England.”
Despite everything, I almost smile. “You’d make a terrible queen. Too practical.”
“Damn right.” She leans back, crosses her arms. Studies me with eyes that miss nothing—sharp and assessing in a way that reminds me she’s not entirely human. Wolf shifters have that quality. Like they can smell emotional distress the way normal people smell smoke.
Which means she probably knows exactly how much of a mess I am right now.
Great.
“So,” she says. “Want to tell me what actually happened out there?”
“You mean besides the helicopter crash, the magical kidnapping, the Syndicate facility, and the part where I almost died?”
“I mean the part where an ancient dragon king created a life-bond with you and now looks at you like you hung the moon and personally invented fire.”
The soup suddenly seems very interesting. I pick up the spoon. Set it down. Pick it up again.
“He does not.”
“Mara.” Nadia’s voice is gentle but firm. She tilts her head slightly—another wolf tell, reading body language most people would miss. “I’ve been doing this for a long time. I know what a mating bond looks like.”
The spoon clatters against the bowl.
“No.” I shake my head so hard it makes me dizzy. “No, there’s no mating bond. That’s not… That’s not what this is. He savedmy life. The bond is because I was dying, and his power was the only thing that could—”
“And you think that’s all it is?” She leans forward, elbows on her knees. Her eyes catch the light—silver undertones visible for just a moment. “You think he’d bind himself to you, make you dependent on his presence, risk everything to keep you close, just because he felt obligated?”
“Yes.” The word comes out harsh. Defensive. “Because that’s what good people do. They save others. Even when it costs them something. It doesn’t mean—”
I stop. Can’t finish.
Nadia waits. She’s good at that—waiting. Not filling silence with bullshit or false comfort. Just letting the truth have space to breathe.
“It doesn’t mean he cares about you?” she finally says. Soft. “Doesn’t mean there’s something more there?”
“There can’t be.” My voice cracks. “He had someone he loved. Someone who mattered. And I—”
I stop. Swallow hard against the burning in my throat.
Nadia’s expression softens. Something flickers across her face—understanding that goes deeper than sympathy. “What happened, Mara?”
The question is gentle. Not pushing. Just opening a door.
I stare at the soup. At my reflection in the broth.
“He called me Lyria,” I finally whisper.
Silence.
I can feel Nadia processing. Waiting for more.
