My mate.
The word still lands with weight.
I lower my gaze to him, taking in the details I have denied myself for far too long. His skin is warm brown, rich in tone even in the low light of Dathanor’s living stone. His hair is a dark mass against the furs, uneven where sleep has disrupted it. There are still faint remnants of bruising along his ribs, though they arealready fading, the bond accelerating what would otherwise take weeks to heal.
He fought.
He endured.
He survived.
Again.
Something in my chest sparks, not with pain this time, but with something fuller. Something I do not have a precise word for in any language I know.
Pride, perhaps.
Affection.
Possession.
He shifts slightly in his sleep, pressing closer without waking, his hand curling instinctively against my side as if confirming I am still here.
I am.
I will always be.
That thought comes easily.
My species does not form bonds lightly. We do not attach ourselves in ways that can be undone without consequence. The bond is not symbolic. It is not optional.
It is final.
I brush my fingers lightly along his back, careful not to wake him. His skin warms under my touch, the bond responding with a low, contented hum that sinks deep in my chest.
He has not told me everything.
I am aware of this.
There are parts of him that remain closed, locked behind instinct and habit shaped long before he came to this world. I have seen enough to understand the outline of it. The way he flinches at sudden movement. The way his humour sharpens when something touches too close to truth. The way his body braces before his mind catches up.
His former mate.
The word tastes wrong. I suppress the instinctive snarl that follows it.
That male hurt him, and in more ways than the time I intervened. I do not require the full details to understand that much. The evidence is written into Pax’s reflexes, and how he anticipates harm before it arrives.
I have seen the male who hurt him. I remember exactly what I did to him. There is no uncertainty in that memory. No distortion or regret.
I did not kill him cleanly. I tore him apart.
The decision had been immediate. Instinctive. Absolute. I would make the same choice again without hesitation.
That does not trouble me. What remains… is that Pax survived him. Carried the damage forward, and I do not yet know how to undo that.
I exhale slowly, forcing the instinct back under control. That is not what keeps me awake.
The pain at the base of my skull pulses again. It is focused. Localised. Familiar.
