“The gravity.”
“Yes.”
“And when I bit you back?”
“You claimed me back.”
Her fingers stilled on my shoulder. The line she had left in me warmed under her touch.
“What kind of claim are we talking about?”
“Private,” I said. “Emotional. Biological. Territorial.”
Her gaze snapped back to mine. She had taken the meaning. Awake. Strategic.
“The bond recognizes it,” I said. “The law does not fully recognize it without witnesses.”
Catalina’s finger brushed my shoulder. “Because a room full of old dragons needs to make sure I bit you correctly?”
“Essentially.”
Her expression flattened. “That’s the stupidest thing I have ever heard.”
“It is not,” I said.
She rolled her eyes and sat with that for a moment, her thumb still near the edge of the mark she had left on me. The touch stayed careful, but the rest of her had gone sharp in the way I was beginning to recognize as thought assembling itself into an argument.
“The bond knows,” she said.
“Yes.”
“You know.”
“Yes.”
“I know.”
I looked at her. “Yes.”
“But the law needs an audience.”
“The law needs proof.”
“The law needs theater,” she corrected.
I did not answer quickly enough.
Her eyes narrowed. “Dominic.”
“In this case,” I said, “yes. The law needs theater.”
“What happens if I refuse the public version?”
“The private claim remains.”
“But it’s still real.”
“Yes.”
