And then?—
The bond ruptures.
Not a hum.
Not a swell.
A detonation.
Their scents explode fully now, cedar splitting like wood under an axe, honey and sun and warmth bursting golden through my bloodstream, cool ink and winter-air slicing clean and electric along my spine.
Emotion floods me.
Calder first. Fierce. Desperate.
And suddenly I am standing in an empty house that still smells like pack but holds only silence. Dust floating in angled afternoon light. A younger Calder frozen in a doorway, realizing something vital has left and is not coming back.
The grief isn’t loud. It is hollow.
Then Tyler. Light. Blinding warmth.
Grass beneath bare feet. Laughter tearing from his throat as someone spins him around in the summer sun. Arms catching him. Safety everywhere. Love offered freely and often.
Joy without caution.
Then Julian.Quiet.
A dim study lit by a single lamp. Pages turning in steady rhythm. A boy too young to look so composed, teaching himself to need less than he wants. Waiting for someone to see him without him having to explain himself first.
It lasts less than a breath.
But I feel all of it.
And then they feel me. Damp soil under my fingernails. Greenhouse light refracted through old glass. My grandmother’s hands pressing seeds into earth.
The first moment when I knelt in the greenhouse alone and chose to plant something anyway, not knowing what would grow, only trusting that something would.
That certainty slams through the bond.
The pain transforms.
Still sharp, throbbing.
But secondary now to something vast and irreversible.
We are not biting.
We are planting. Rooting.
Their teeth remain embedded, holding pressure while the marks set. I can feel blood, warm and metallic.
The bond locks.
Not gently.
With finality.
The hollow in Calder seals with my presence.
