Physically.
Her posture changes within an hour, her shoulders rolling back, her head coming up, her steps getting quieter and more deliberate. She starts moving like someone who knows the world is actively trying to kill her and has accepted that information instead of freezing in front of it.
It terrifies me.
It impresses me.
It makes something deep in my chest go uncomfortably quiet, like a predator realizing it’s not alone in the dark anymore.
“You’re drifting too close,” I snap suddenly, stepping backward hard enough that my heel clips the wall.
She startles.
“What.”
“Your pulse just spiked,” I say tightly. “Back up.”
She frowns.
“I literally did nothing.”
“You stepped inside my sensory range.”
“Your what.”
“Back. Up.”
She takes a step away, hands lifting slightly in an unconscious placating gesture.
“Okay, damn.”
The jalshagar surges anyway, hot and insistent, reacting to the way her breath changed when I snapped at her, reacting to the way her body leaned toward mine without her realizing it.
Mine.
No.
I turn away from her sharply and walk six paces down the corridor, jaw locked so hard my teeth ache.
“Do not do that again,” I growl.
She follows me anyway.
“Do not what,” she demands.
“Do not close distance without warning.”
“Tur,” she says flatly. “We are in a hallway that is approximately three feet wide.”
“That does not make it better.”
She stares at my back.
“You realize how insane that sounds, right.”
“Yes.”
“You’re acting like I just pulled a knife on you.”
