"I'll work on it."
"Don't work on it. Do it." He drinks deeply. "And for the gods' sakes, stop letting her publicly disagree with you. The other warriors are starting to question whether you can control your own home. How will you control a clan?"
How will I control anything when I'm falling apart?
"It won't happen again."
"See that it doesn't." He dismisses me with a wave. "You chose this path, Rakk. Now walk it properly."
I returnto my dwelling as evening settles over the canyon. Serah is in her room—I can hear the soft rustle of movement through the closed door. She emerges briefly to get water, sees me sitting by the hearth, and retreats without a word.
This is my life now. Sharing space with someone who can barely stand to look at me.
I want to knock on her door. Want to beg forgiveness on my knees until my voice breaks. Want to tell her I love her, that every harsh touch destroys me more than it could ever hurt her, that I'd carve out my own heart if it meant erasing the pain I've caused.
But I can't. Not while the clan watches. Not while warriors question my authority. Not while my father demands results and pregnancy and proof that I can lead.
Not while revealing the truth could strip away everything I'm trying to protect.
So I sit alone by the fire and feel the bruises throb beneath my armor. Feel the ache in my ribs with every breath. Feel the soul-binding pulse like a living thing, tying me to her even as she slips further away.
The zhisk bottle sits on the table. I drink straight from it, welcoming the burn down my throat. Anything to dull the edges of this particular torture.
Tomorrow I'll have to perform again. Grab her arm or her wrist or her shoulder and watch her flinch. Demonstrate control I don't feel while pain blooms across my body in payment.
Tomorrow I'll pretend everything is fine while slowly bleeding out from wounds no one can see.
Tomorrow I'll lose another piece of her while my father demands I breed her and my best friend looks at me with growing disgust and the entire clan expects me to break her completely.
I drain the bottle.
Three days later,everything falls apart.
Serah is arguing with me in the plaza—something about being ordered to help prepare hides when she'd rather work in the healing chambers. It's a small disagreement. Barely worth mentioning under normal circumstances.
But there are at least forty clan members within hearing distance. And she's openly contradicting me. Again.
"I said you'll work where I tell you to work." I keep my voice hard. Commanding.
"And I'm telling you I'm more useful with Zurkar than scraping fat off animal skins."
Whispers ripple through the watching crowd. I can feel their judgment. Their expectations. The weight of every single eye evaluating whether the Chieftain's son can maintain authority over his own mate.
"Serah." Warning colors my tone. "This isn't up for discussion."
"Everything about my life seems to be decided without discussion."
The bitterness in her voice cuts deeper than any blade. But I can't address it here. Can't explain or apologize or do anything except what the clan demands.
I reach for her arm. Grip firmly—not painfully, but with clear intent. "We're going home."
She jerks back. Hard. "Don't?—"
I catch her wrist instead, my hand closing around delicate bones. The position requires more pressure to maintain hold. More force to keep her from pulling away while everyone watches.
Pain explodes through my own wrist immediately—the binding activating, transferring the force I'm using straight into my body. I feel bones grind. Feel something crack.
But I can't let go. Can't show weakness in front of half the clan.
