If he injects me now?—
He doesn’t just erase my presentation.
He could destroy whatever bond is forming.
Whatever I chose.
Whatever I might still choose.
“No,” I breathe.
His hand moves.
And I scream.
FORTY-TWO
SOL
I don’t likeplans built on apology.
They rely too heavily on timing, on emotional availability, on the assumption that the other person will still be there when you arrive with your explanation polished and your pride stripped away.
We’re in the kitchen when I say it.
“We go tonight,” I tell them, voice even, controlled. “Not as a pack ambush. One at a time. No pressure. No speeches.”
Kai leans against the counter, restless, eyes sharp and shadowed from lack of sleep. Koa stands still but coiled. Finn hasn’t moved much since yesterday, his quiet far heavier than usual.
“We let her set the pace,” Finn says.
“Yes,” I agree.
The air feels thinner without her in the house. Even now, with her just next door, I can feel the absence like a hollow behind my sternum. The bond isn’t clean. It isn’t sealed. But it exists.
It hums.
And then?—
It tears.
There’s no gradual escalation.
No subtle shift.
One second I’m standing at the counter, discussing logistics.
The next, something slams through my system so violently my vision fractures at the edges.
Terror.
Not irritation.
Not anger.
Not rejection.
Terror. Absolute and all-encompassing.