“You’re better,” I whisper.
Buff shakes his head hard, tears threatening to spill.
“No, I’m not—I’m not strong like you, I’m not brave like you, I’m not?—”
“Stop.” I grip the back of his neck, steadying him. “Strength isn’t teeth and rage and stupid hero shit.”
He sobs, his breath hitching.
“Strength is staying,” I say quietly. “Strength is loyalty. Strength is loving someone enough to protect them even when it breaks you.”
He swallows, eyes flicking down to the collar crushed in his fist.
“You can be her safe place,” I tell him. “You just have to believe it.”
A small, cracked sound escapes him—half sob, half denial. “I’m scared,” he whispers.
“I know.” I pull him back into a rough, fierce embrace—the kind you give your brother before the world ends. “But you won’t be alone. Not really. She’s… she’s sunshine, Buff. She’ll love you without even trying. She’ll heal pieces of you that you didn’t know were broken.”
His shoulders shake.
“And what about you?” he chokes out.
I let him go and step back. “I’ll handle what’s coming. That’s what I’m good at.”
His face crumples, grief written in every line. “Jason, don’t do this.”
I offer him the faintest, saddest smile. “I’m not dying tonight, Buff. I just need you to live. Go,” I say again, voice steady, final. “She needs you. And I… I need her safe.”
He shakes his head once, violently, then sprints into the trees, clutching the collar to his chest like a lifeline.
I turn toward the sound of approaching wolves. And for the first time in years, I stop running.
I stand there only long enough to hear him reach the old campsite. I can almost feel him realize I never took the envelope. Never touched the money. Never had any intention of running.
His howl rips through the night.
Betrayal.
Heartbreak.
Grief.
“Come back!”
The faint, fading voice pushes through the shifter-bond like a knife to the spine.
“Don’t do this! Jace—please—don’t do this!”
I close my eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I have to.”
Then I shut the bond.
Cut it clean.
I don’t go south toward escape.
