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Not because of anything Ignatius had said, but because he was waiting to find out what I would do with it.

I turned back to Ignatius. “When does the change start? The effect on other people, I mean.”

“The process can begin before conscious recognition, particularly once the dragon has identified their mate, but it strengthens considerably when emotional and physical bonding becomes reciprocal.”

“So whatever Max does to other people could already be fading.”

“Yes.”

Doryu glanced at his laptop. “There are indications it might be. Nothing I’d use as proof, but after Melanie made her accusations, I looked at what was publicly available because we needed to know whether anyone else was likely to emerge with a similar story.”

Max’s jaw tightened. “And?”

“Nobody did. More interestingly, the pattern of people behaving as though brief interactions with you meant considerably more than they did appears to have decreased over the last few months.”

I looked at him. “Since me?”

Doryu’s mouth twitched. “I wasn’t going to put it quite that bluntly.”

Ignatius inclined his head. “The timing is consistent with the historical records, although correlation isn’t proof.”

My thoughts went immediately to the most obvious exception. “What about Melanie?”

“Whatever influence Max’s nature may have had on her initial attraction doesn’t absolve her of the choices she made afterward,” Ignatius said. “Influence and control are not the same thing. She entered Max’s home without permission, took photographs and deliberately encouraged a false narrative. Those actions belonged to her.”

Max nodded slowly.

The humor had disappeared completely when he asked, “What about my mother?”

I felt the shift in him immediately. Ignatius did too.

“Was my father right about her? Could being lifebound have caused what happened?”

Ignatius didn’t insult him by answering too quickly.

“Your nature may have intensified an attachment that already existed.” Max’s fingers curled against his thigh. “But that is not the same thing as saying you caused her death.”

“My father said she might have been unusually vulnerable to me.”

“He may have been right about that part. I’m not going to tell you it’s impossible simply because the answer would make you feel better.” Ignatius paused, making sure Max was listening. “What he could not know was why your mother ultimately took her own life unless she told him, and even then, people are not equations. Mental state, circumstance, relationships, fear, grief, and any number of other factors can exist at the same time.”

Max stared at him.

Ignatius leaned forward. “You were seventeen years old, Max. You went to training camp. You didn’t abandon her, manipulate her, compel her, or choose whatever pain she was living with. Even if your nature formed one thread in what she felt, you are not responsible for the decision she made.”

Max closed his eyes.

I wanted to touch him so badly that my hand actually moved before I stopped it, then I realized I was doing exactly what he’d spent the last day doing to me. Waiting for permission when I already knew what I wanted.

So I reached for him.

Max’s eyes opened as my fingers closed around his hand.

Ignatius’s voice softened. “Your father gave you uncertainty and taught you to treat it as guilt.”

The words landed somewhere deep enough that for a moment I forgot how to breathe.

My father had given me altered evidence and taught me to treat it as truth, while Max’s father had given him incomplete information and taught him to treat fear as responsibility.