Through the bond, I felt him wake up.
Not physically—he'd been awake. But something deeper. Something that had been dormant, resigned, waiting to die. It stirred now. Noticed me. Noticed that I was inside. That nothing separated us anymore.
That I was prey.
"Stone." My voice came out steady. I didn't know how. "It's me. It's just me."
He didn't move. But the energy in the room shifted. I could feel it building—the same pressure that preceded his worst episodes. The same tension that had driven him to throw himself against the barrier until he bled.
Only now there was no barrier.
I pressed my palms flat against the door behind me. Grounded myself. Tried to breathe.
You wanted this,I reminded myself.You chose this. You walked in here knowing what might happen.
Stone rose to his feet.
The movement was slow. Deliberate. Nothing like the frantic pacing I'd watched through the glass. This was something else—something controlled and predatory that made every instinct I had scream at me to run.
I didn't run.
He took a step toward me. Then another. His head low. His eyes never leaving my face.
Through the bond, I felt what was churning inside him. Confusion. Fear. Anger. And underneath it all, something that felt almost like betrayal—like I'd violated some unspokenagreement by crossing into his space. By making myself vulnerable. By taking away the barrier that had let him keep me at a distance.
"I know you're scared," I said softly. "I know this feels wrong. But I'm not leaving. Not this time."
He stopped. Five feet away. Close enough that I could see the blood still matted in his fur from his last episode. Close enough to see the way his ribs stood out beneath his coat—too prominent, too sharp. Close enough to see the damage he'd done to himself.
Close enough to reach me in a single lunge.
The bond between us thrummed. Pulled. I could feel it trying to complete itself—trying to bridge the gap that Stone had been fighting since the moment we first connected. And I could feel him fighting it still. Even now. Even dying.
"Please," I whispered. "Let me help you."
Something shifted in his expression. His lips pulled back. Not quite a snarl—something more complicated. Something caught between threat and anguish.
Then he lunged.
I had time to thinkthis is itand then he was on me.
The impact drove me back against the door. His weight slammed into my chest, forcing the air from my lungs. His paws—massive, clawed, capable of tearing me apart—pressed against my shoulders, pinning me in place.
His jaws closed around my throat.
Not biting. Not yet. But I could feel his teeth against my skin. Feel the heat of his breath on my neck. Feel the tremor in his body as he held himself on the edge of violence.
Through the bond, I felt his rage. His terror. His desperate, animal certainty that I was a threat—that everyone was a threat—that the only way to survive was to destroy anything that got too close.
I closed my eyes.
And I made myself go still.
Every instinct I had screamed at me to fight. To struggle. To try to get away. But I knew—in some deep, bone-certain way—that fighting was what he expected. Fighting was what he knew. Fighting was the only language he'd been able to understand for years.
So I gave him something else.
I went limp against the door. Stopped resisting. Let my body become soft and unthreatening and present.
