He crosses the room in two strides. Not stalking, not predatory. Just closing the distance the way Silas always closes distance, with purpose and patience. He stops in front of the reading nook and lowers his massive head until his nose is level with my chest.
I reach out. My fingers find his mane. The fur is coarser than I expected, thick and warm, and underneath it I can feel the heat of him, the vibration of a purr starting deep in his chest.
"Come here," I say. "There's room."
There isn't room. The reading nook was built for two people, not one person and a full-grown lion. But he tries anyway, folding himself onto the window seat beside me withabsolutely no regard for physics, and I end up half-pinned under a shoulder and a paw the size of my head.
I laugh. Can't help it. He's ridiculous. This enormous, powerful predator is trying to fit into a reading nook and his back legs are hanging off the edge and his tail is knocking against the bookshelf and he's looking at me with an expression of complete dignity, as if this is exactly how he planned it.
"You're absurd," I say, running my fingers through his mane, over his face, tracing the bridge of his nose, the ridge of his brow. He closes his eyes and the purr deepens, rumbling through both of us, vibrating the window seat.
I shift underneath him. Turn my head to the side. Expose my neck.
Not accidentally. Not casually. Deliberately, the way you offer something precious to someone you trust completely. The way you say yes without speaking.
The lion goes still. The purr stops. His breath moves over my neck, hot, slow, and I can feel him there, the weight of the moment, the question being asked in a language older than words.
I reach up and pull him closer. My fingers in his mane, my throat bare, my heart steady.
"Yes," I whisper. "Whatever you're asking. Yes."
The purr starts again. Low, deep, a sound I feel in my bones. His nose presses against my pulse point. He breathes me in. And then he pulls back, and the ripple moves through him again, and Silas is there, human, naked, kneeling over me in the reading nook with his hand on my jaw.
"Dev." His voice is wrecked.
"I've seen the marks," I say. "On Robin. On Toby. On Ash and Nico. I know what they mean. I asked Nico about his, weeks ago. He told me everything. The permanence. What it means for the bond." I meet his eyes. "I want one."
"It's going to hurt."
"I know."
"It's permanent. For both of us."
"I know that too."
"Dev —"
"I've spent my whole life with nothing permanent. Every home was temporary. Every placement was conditional. Every person who said they'd stay left." I put my hand over his on my jaw. "Give me something that doesn't leave. Give me something I can feel when you're not in the room. Give me the permanent thing."
He leans down. Presses his mouth to my neck, right over my pulse. I feel his lips, then his teeth, and the hesitation, the trembling restraint of a man who wants this so much it scares him.
"Please," I say.
He bites.
It hurts. A sharp, bright pain that flares through my neck and down my spine and I gasp and grip his shoulders and hold on. His jaw tightens, his teeth pressing deeper, and then something shifts. The pain doesn't stop but it changes. It becomes something else, something warm, something that spreads through my chest like a sound I can feel but not hear. A low note, steady and sure.
The bond. Settling into place. Finding the frequency.
He releases. Pulls back. His eyes are gold, fully gold, the lion still close to the surface. His thumb traces the mark on my neck, already tender, already bruising into something that will scar.
"Okay?" he asks.
"Okay." I touch the mark. It's warm under my fingers, pulsing gently. "Is it supposed to feel like that? Like humming?"
"Yeah." His voice is rough. "That's the bond. It'll settle. But you'll always feel it."
"Good. I want that."