Nothing happens.
I blink, surprised by the emptiness.
Arden watches carefully. "Any response?"
"No."
He nods and writes it down.
"Okay. Now I'm going to purr."
That one hits different.
It's subtle, vibrating in his chest, threaded with warmth. The sound an alpha makes when he wants to soothe—to coax your nervous system into remembering it's safe.
My throat tightens.
Not in tranquility.
In something like memory.
My skin prickles faintly along my arms. A weak flutter low in my belly. It's so small it almost doesn't count.
But it's there.
Arden stops immediately—like he felt the shift and chose not to push.
"How was that?"
"Fine," I say automatically.
His brow lifts. "Fine like nothing? Or fine like you felt something."
I hate that he can tell.
"I felt a little," I admit, voice quiet.
Arden nods once, satisfied, and makes a note.
"That's not nothing. Your nervous system isn't dead. It's just guarded."
I swallow and look down at my hands.
Guarded implies there's something worth guarding.
Arden opens his slim case and pulls out several folded shirts in clear plastic sleeves, setting them on the table like evidence.
"What are those?"
"Marked cloth. I asked your pack to scent a piece of clothing each. If you're okay with it, I want you to hold them one at a time. See if your body registers comfort, distress, neutrality."
I nod, because words feel heavy.
Arden slides the first sleeve toward me.
I open it.
Smoke and iron.
