“That’s not inaccurate.”
“How quickly did your brain catch up?”
“About thirty seconds after you told me my Shadowfang series uses darkness as a substitute for depth.”
Her lips parted. Closed. “You fell for me because I insulted your work.”
“You IMPROVED my work. There’s a difference.”
“That’s one of the most romantic things anyone’s said to me and it’s about literary criticism.”
He let himself smile. Not the controlled version—the real one, the one that Kael claimed appeared roughly twice per fiscal year. She saw it. Her expression softened into recognition—the quiet satisfaction of a woman who’d studied him for weeks and had found an expression she’d never seen.
“I’m telling you this because you deserve to know the full picture before you decide anything. That recognition doesn’tobligate you. It doesn’t bind you. It doesn’t override your choice.”
“So I can walk away.”
“Yes.”
“And your wolf?”
“My wolf is not the one making decisions. I am.”
“And the mark?” Her voice was careful. “The bite. What does that do?”
He met her eyes. “It can create awareness. Location. Heartbeat. A compass bearing—you’d always know where I am, and I’d know the same of you.” He paused. “It’s not automatic. It requires a choice. Both people choosing. It doesn’t happen to you.”
She turned that over. Slow. Serious. “Okay.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. I’m adding it to the forty-seven questions.” She looked at the floor. “At least tell me there are snacks coming.”
She didn’t look away. The room hummed. The drafting table loomed behind him—drawer open, hidden pages exposed, every wall he’d built lying in rubble between them.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay, I have about forty-seven more questions and we’re going to need snacks. But okay.”
His mother’sbrownstone glowed from the inside out.
Warm light spilled through the ground-floor windows onto the Upper East Side sidewalk. He could hear the kitchen from the front steps—his mother’s cadence, Kael’s laugh, the clatter of plates being set on the massive wooden surface that seatedtwelve and had hosted every significant Axan gathering since before he was born.
Lumi stood beside him on the stoop. She’d changed three times—he knew because Mika had texted him:She’s on outfit number three. Tell your mother to be normal. I mean it.
“Your hands are shaking.”
She shoved them in her jacket pockets. “I’m meeting your parents. Officially. After learning your wolf soul-bonded to me or whatever the biological equivalent is. My hands are doing exactly what they’re supposed to do.”
“It’s not a soul bond.”
“I know. I was being dramatic for comedic effect. My coping mechanism, remember?”
He rang the bell.
His mother opened the door in an apron—a detail that would have been maternal and warm if the apron hadn’t been Hermès and her earrings hadn’t been worth more than Lumi’s monthly rent. She assessed Lumi in two seconds, the way she assessed art at auction: fast, thorough, verdict already forming.
