“That’s not an invitation.”
“It is a trigger.”
I exhale sharply. “You killed something outside my house.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t wake me.”
“There was no strategic advantage in doing so.”
“There would’ve been trust,” I fire back.
His gaze sharpens. “Trust is not an infernal mechanism.”
“No,” I say, stepping closer despite myself. “But it’s a human one, and last I checked, you’re tethered to one.”
Something in him reacts—not outwardly, not dramatically, but I feel it. The bond tightens, not painfully, but with a pressure that settles deeper than before.
“You are correct,” he says.
I blink. “That’s new.”
“I am adapting.”
“That word again.” I laugh under my breath, but it comes out softer than I intend. “You keep saying that like it doesn’t mean something different every time.”
“It means something different every time.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“It is not meant to be.”
My pulse climbs again, not just from frustration now, but something more complicated. Something warmer. More dangerous.
And he moves.
He’s in front of me fully now, close enough that the air between us disappears entirely. The ward sigils flicker once, then steady, as if the room itself recognizes what’s happening before I do.
“You reacted,” I say.
“Yes.”
“Because of me.”
“Yes.”
I don’t step back.
Instead, I close the distance.
“What happens if I don’t give you space?” I ask quietly.
His voice drops. “You are already not giving me space.”
“Answer the question.”
“You already know the answer.”
