He doesn’t know why he held back. Which means he’s as confused as I am.
The thought unsettles me more than violence would have.
“It’s not a trick,” he says quietly. Still holding his wrists out. “I’m offering.”
I don’t trust it. Don’t trust him. Don’t trust anything right now. But the heat is still there. Still burning beneath my skin. Still making me too aware of how close he is.
And the cuffs—
The suppression might help. Might dull whatever this is. I move before I can reconsider. Cross the shelter fast. Grab the cuffs from where they fell and fit them around his wrists, fingertips tingling at the contact with his skin.
God. How could this be happening?
He doesn’t resist. Doesn’t move. Just stands absolutely still while I lock the runes in place. The moment they activate, relief crashes through me. The heat dims. Not gone—not even close—but the edge dulls. The overwhelmingpresenceof him recedes like a wave pulling back from shore.
I can breathe again. Sort of.
I back away. Fast. Don’t stop until my shoulders hit the far wall. Then my legs give out. I slide down. Knees to chest. Arms wrapped around them. Making myself small. The shaking starts. Not from cold. Not from fear. From grief so deep it threatens to drown me.
For all this time, I’ve survived on hate. Let it feed me when food tasted like pain. Let it drive me when exhaustion said to quit. Let it give me purpose when waking up felt pointless.
Hate made sense. Hate was clean. Simple. Justified.
I hated the Syndicate for killing Chance. Hated the world for taking him. Hated this man for signing the order. And underneath all that hate—I hated myself. For laughing at my mother’s story that day. For not being there when he died. For surviving when he didn’t.
But hate gave me direction. Structure. Something to do with the rage that had nowhere else to go.
And now—
Now I don’t know how to hate him when my body wants him alive. Don’t know how to honor Chance’s memory when my wolf is howling for the dragon who killed him. Don’t know who I am without the certainty that carrying grief and vengeance is the only thing I’m good for anymore.
My forehead drops to my knees. I squeeze my eyes shut, but I can still smell him. Still feel the phantom weight of his body against mine. Still remember the way my hands wanted to rip fabric and find skin instead of ripping into his throat and drawing blood.
What’s wrong with me?
The question is relentless. No answer. Just the certainty that something has broken.
I can’t look across the shelter. Can’t bear to see if he’s watching me fall apart. Can’t face whatever might be in his expression—confusion or understanding or worse, contempt.
The heat thrums beneath my skin. His dragon is muted by the suppression cuffs, but somehow, I can still sense him. Wrong. Impossible.
My wolf prowls. Restless. Not hunting.
Seeking.
No, goddammit!
I press my forehead harder against my knees until it hurts. The foundation I rebuilt my life on has cracks I can’t explain. Can’t fix. Can’t ignore. I don’t know who I am without it. Don’t know what I’m supposed to do when the man I came to kill triggers responses that should be happening.
I want to scream. To tear something apart. To get out of this place and pretend none of this ever took place. But the storm has sealed us in. Snow piled against the entrance. No escape until it passes.
Hours. Maybe a full day. Trapped here with him while my body betrays everything I am.
My breathing turns ragged. Too fast. The edges of my vision blur.
I’m breaking.
Can feel it happening. The careful control I’ve maintained—the discipline, the focus, the single-minded purpose—collapsing under the weight of something I never prepared for.
