"Your mate. Your wife. You told me how she died, but not who she was." Maren's silver eyes caught firelight. "What was her name?"
"Lena." The name came out rough, unused. "Lena Ash."
"What was she like?"
"Strong. Stubborn. Laughed at things that shouldn't have been funny." Tristan stared into his tea. "She was a combat medic. Met her overseas. She patched me up after a mission went sideways, and that was it. Knew immediately."
"The mate bond?"
"Yeah. Felt like everything clicked into place for the first time in my life." His jaw tightened. "She wanted to come back to the States, settle somewhere quiet. We chose that town because it seemed safe, peaceful. Normal."
"Until it wasn't."
"Until someone got scared and decided fear was enough reason to kill." He set down his mug with controlled force. "I should've been there. Should've stayed instead of taking another deployment. But I thought one more mission, one more paycheck, and we'd be set."
"It's not your fault."
"Feels like it."
Maren was quiet for a moment. "Is that why you're so determined to save me? Because you couldn't save her?"
Tristan wanted to say his protection came purely from duty and professional obligation. But that would be a lie, and they'd already moved past pretending.
"Partly," he admitted. "But it's more than that."
"What do you mean?"
He couldn't answer. He didn't know how to explain something he barely understood himself. The way her shadows responded to him shouldn't work, different magical signatures didn't blend that seamlessly. The way his instincts screamed to protect her went beyond guardian duty.
None of it made sense. All of it felt inevitable.
The power flickered and an outlet popped.
Maren's shadows reacted instantly, surging outward in protective waves. They wrapped around Tristan before he could move, dark tendrils winding up his arms, across his chest, anchoring him in place.
"Sorry," Maren said, standing abruptly. "They're still on edge."
The shadows tightened, pulling him toward her.
Not aggressive. Not threatening. Just insistent, like they'd made a decision their mistress hadn't consciously commanded.
Tristan found himself moving, closing the distance between them until he stood close enough to feel her heat, close enough to see the way her pupils dilated in the firelight.
"I don't know why they're doing this." Her voice came out breathless. "I'm not controlling them."
"I know."
The shadows wound tighter, bringing them closer still. Her hands came up, bracing against his chest, and he felt the tremor in her fingers. Fear or want or something in between.
Tristan's control, carefully maintained for days, cracked. His hand lifted, cupping her face, thumb tracing the line of her jaw. Her skin was soft, warmer than he'd expected, and she leaned into the touch like she'd been waiting for it.
"This is a bad idea," he said.
"Terrible idea." Her hands fisted in his shirt. "We're under too much pressure. Too much stress. Tomorrow everything might change."
He kissed her.
Slow at first, testing, giving her time to pull away. She didn't. Instead she rose on her toes, pressing closer, her mouth opening under his with a sound that shot straight through him.
