Every time I’ve insulted our bond by thinking of it as temporary.
And every time I’ve impressed her with my fighting spirit, too.
That’s the only reason she didn’t give up on me, I realize. The only reason she protected me during the Presentation. The only reason she cooperated to get me through the Voice Trial.
Shewantsthis bond—or at least, she wants to try.
And she’s pleased that I’m finally accepting it, even if she doesn’t trust me yet. Even if part of her still wants to tear me apart for all the disrespect I’ve given her.
Goddess, my head is spinning. Her mind, herfeelings—they’re so overwhelming. It’s hard to get to my own thoughts inmy head, buried underneath the wave after wave I’m receiving from her. Part of me wonders if she’s been protecting me from this, too, by keeping the wall up between us. She knew I wasn’t strong enough yet to receive her in full.
My eyes sting and burn with inexplicable tears.
“I’m sorry,” I think, too overwhelmed to speak the words aloud. “I didn’t know—I didn’t understand.”
Another wave of feelings washes over me. There’s satisfaction in it. Annoyance, too. Hope and distrust.
“I will work with you,” Anassa declares finally, her mental voice carrying both promise and warning. “But know this—I chose you for a reason. Do not make me regret it.”
Before I can summon the ability to ask why she chose me, the connection closes. It’s not like before—there’s no slamming of that iron wall—but it’s clear the conversation is over.
As Anassa retreats once more into the shadows, I’m left with a sense of immense emptiness I don’t quite understand.
Like I’ve lost something I didn’t even know I was missing until now. It was the same feeling I had after the Voice Trial, when she let me see glimpses of a potential connection, but amplified by an unbelievable magnitude.
I make my way back down to my room in a cloud of unanswered questions, the echo of Anassa’s regal voice still loud in my head.
When Anassa meetsme on the training field the next morning, I know today is going to be different. She doesn’t speak to me again, but the barrier between our minds is little more than a porous membrane. Through it, I can sense her feelings, her focus, her every intention.
She looks me in the eye when Stark commands us to mount up. Her mistrust flares again as she waits for me to push the connection away.
I don’t. I just put my hand on her broad, furry neck and nod.
“I’ll do my best,” I think toward her. “I’m willing to try.”
She blinks slowly in wordless acknowledgment and turns her head away, waiting for me to climb on her back. As we begin our mounted warm-ups, I brace reflexively for her resistance, unconsciously expecting her to try bucking me off again.
Only she doesn’t. She glances back at me with irritation, though.
I send her a wordless apology and force my limbs to relax. A subtle tension I didn’t even notice before leaves Anassa, too. The muscles in her back go lax.
Today’s warm-ups start with a few laps around the training field, then agility drills with the enormous weave poles and hurdles on one end of the arena.
The instinct to direct Anassa is hard to resist. It’s terrifying to sit astride such an enormous animal and know you’re not in control. But Anassa can sense my anxiety. The fur between her shoulders ripples with responding ire.
Trust, I tell myself sternly, leaning into the enormous wolf.You have to trust her, Meryn. Otherwise, this will never work.
Again, Anassa responds, though I didn’t mean for her to hear my thoughts. I’ll have to start finally using some of the communication strategies we’ve gotten in Samson’s class, I realize. The bristling fur subsides. Her running gait grows longer, more confident.
I’m still nervous as I focus on matching Anassa’s rhythm, moving with her instead of trying to direct her.
Listen. Hear.
The command comes as a wordless thought—a vague intuition—but my mind translates it easily. I turn all my sensesto the wolf. To the beat of her paws against the ground. The way her weight shifts with each stride. The way her ears angle and her head turns just before she changes direction.
By the time we reach the hurdle jumps at the end of the agility course, I’m aware of every muscle in her body coiling and uncoiling, all the way down to the flex of her toes as her claws dig into the earth.
Somehow, I know just how far to lean over her neck at the start of every leap. And how to hold my weight off her back when she lands so the impact doesn’t disrupt her stride.
