The bond pulses faintly.
Sharp.
Alive.
“She’s alive,” I whisper.
The words don’t feel like comfort.
They feel like a countdown.
I don’t seewhat they do to her.
But I feel it. The bond we have makes it possible.
Pressure.
Pain.
The cold, clinical application of force by men who know exactly how much damage they can do without killing her.
My jaw locks so hard my teeth creak.
“Don’t break,” I whisper into empty air. “Please don’t break.”
The bond goes quiet for a long, terrible stretch.
Then it flares.
Not violently.
Not feral.
A small, sharp spike of sensation that feels like a match struck inside my chest.
Hope.
Alive.
Resisting.
My breath leaves me in a broken sound.
“She’s still fighting,” I whisper.
They lock her alone in a cell.
I don’t see it.
I feel the hollow quiet settle around her like a coffin lid.
Thin cot.
Cold concrete.
Distant machinery thudding somewhere below her feet.
Her fear tastes like iron and ozone in my mouth.
