“Define ‘this.’” I stretch out slightly, feigning relaxation. “The near-death bonding ritual, the political game, or the privilege of your sparkling personality?”
She throws a sodden glove at me. I don’t move, and it hits my chest with a wet slap.
I sigh. “Very mature.”
“At least I’m honest,” she snaps. “You walk around acting like this bond is a strategy, like I’m just a piece on your gameboard.”
“Isn’t that what you are?” I murmur.
The flare of fury that pulses down the bond is immediate. Hot. Sharp. Alive.
But underneath it is something else. Hurt and wounded pride and… doubt. I feel it all, whether I want to or not. Oh this is going to be so annoying.
She sits stiffly across from me, arms crossed. “Tell yourself whatever you need to sleep at night, prince.”
“I don’t sleep much.”
She scoffs. “Color me shocked.”
For a long moment, we sit in silence, the bond straining between us like a stretched wire, vibrating with too many things unsaid. I can feel her fatigue crawling along my bones. The weight of her stubbornness. The edge of her fear.
“I didn’t want this,” she says quietly, not looking at me.
“I know.”
I don’t offer comfort. But I don’t look away either.
She lies down, turning her back to me. “Wake me if the storm breaks the wards.”
“I’ll let you freeze a little first,” I say.
A pause and then:
“Smug bastard.”
I almost smile.
The silence stretches and I think she finnaly fall asleap when she says:
“Why didn’t you tell me it would feel like this?”
I glance at her. The bond tightens, reacting to my attention. “Because I didn’t know.”
She scoffs. “You know everything.”
“Not about this.”
She sighs, and they say softer: “It’s overwhelming.”
“I know.”
“I keep waking up with your emotions in my throat.”
“And I dream with your thoughts in mine.”
She rubs at her arms, then shivers. “Is this forever?”
I don’t answer. Not because I don’t know, but because I don’t know what form it will take.
