It’s the most soothing sound I’ve ever heard.
I close my eyes. Just for a second. Just to rest.
The sound of the door wakes me from sleep I didn’t know I was in. It’s a heavy metallic clang, locks disengaging, hinges grinding. I jolt, and Declan’s arms tighten around me instantly. His whole body goes rigid, and the rumble in his chest changes from that soft purr to something lower and harder.
A growl.
My father steps into the room.
He’s got two orderlies behind him, and he’s carrying a blood draw kit. His eyes sweep the room, taking it all in. Me in Declan’s lap. The gurney pushed aside. The state of us.
“Good,” he says, like he’s checking a box. “I need to run some tests. Iris, come with me.”
Declan’s growl gets louder. I feel it in my bones. “She’s not going anywhere.” His voice is rough—but underneath the damage, there’s iron. “The bond isn’t complete. You can’t separate us. Not yet.”
He’s lying. I don’t know how I know it, but I do. The bond. Whatever it is, I can feel him through it. Not in words, but impressions. And right now, the impression is deliberate. He’s saying what he needs to say to keep them from taking me.
I don’t argue or ask questions. I press closer to his chest and stay quiet.
Dad frowns. I can see him weighing it. The risk of separating us against the data he wants. He looks at the orderlies, then back at Declan. At me. “How long?” he asks.
“I don’t know.” Declan’s arms are steel bands around me. “Hours. Maybe longer. The bond is still forming. If you pull her away now, it could destabilize everything you’re trying to achieve.”
That’s smart. He’s speaking Dad’s language. I feel a flush of something that might be admiration, except it comes with a sharp tinge of sadness that isn’t mine. His sadness. Regret, heavy and dark.
Dad considers for a long moment. Then he nods. “Fine. I’ll take samples here.” He crosses the cell and crouches beside us, pulling on gloves. The needle comes out. I watch it slide into my arm, but I don’t flinch because I’m pressed against Declan’s chest and the warmth from the bond is still there, dulling everything.
Dad fills three vials. Labels them. Packs them away.
He doesn’t ask me how I feel. He doesn’t even look at my face. He looks at the bite mark on my shoulder, and for a second, something crosses his face—satisfaction, maybe, or excitement. “I’ll be back in two hours,” he says before leaving.
The locks engage. The door seals. We’re alone.
For a while, neither of us speaks. His hand is still over mine. The growl has faded back to silence. I can feel his heartbeat against my shoulder blade, slowing a little at a time.
“Iris.” His voice is quiet, lips close to my ear like he wants to be sure only I hear him. “I need to tell you what happened.”
“You bit me,” I whisper.
“Yeah.” He exhales. “In my world, when a shifter finds their mate, there’s a bond. A connection. It starts before either person understands what it is. The scent, the pull, the way it feels to be near each other. That’s how it started with us.”
The scent. The car ride with Dad, when I smelled something sweet on the air and couldn’t explain it. The pull in my chest when we drove past the tree line. That was this?
“The bite completes it,” he continues. “It links us. Permanently. You can feel things from me now. I can feel them from you. It’s—” He pauses. “It’s not something that can be undone.”
I know it’s true. I feel it because he feels it. I’ve been permanently bonded to a man I met yesterday.
“My dad made you do this.” It’s not a question.
The silence that follows is full of things he doesn’t say. I feel them through the bond. The guilt, the anger. Protectiveness that burns so hot it almost hurts. Underneath all of it, the dark regret that won’t go away.
“He used Tara,” Declan finally says. “She’s here, in another cell. He showed me a feed. Told me if I didn’t complete the bond,they would hurt her.” His voice gets rougher. “They cut the feed, and I heard her scream.”
My stomach turns over. Tara. She fought two armed-men to protect me.
“I’m sorry,” he says again. “It shouldn’t have happened this way. The bond is supposed to be something good. Not this.”
I can feel his regret so clearly it makes my throat ache. “Don’t be sorry,” I whisper, because I feel his pain and want it to go away. “You couldn’t help it.”