When I awake, Master is still wrapped around me. His scent fills the air, a mixture of sweat, leather, deer hide, and that wild trace of blood, all tangled in the fabric of his cloak and the curve of his arm across my waist. My tail flicks, curling automatically around his thigh, not just for comfort—because I have to, because it’s no longer a choice but a compulsion, a reflex as natural as breathing. Every nerve in my body thrums with him, every sense sharpened not to the world but to the Bond, now leveled up, constricted, burning.

  Bonded Soul, Level III: five feet.

  A leash, not a thread.

  I don’t move at first, savouring the overload of connection. I am aware of him in ways that shouldn’t be possible. His heartbeat is a slow, stubborn rhythm beneath my palm, never gentle, always alert, the pulse of a soldier who never truly surrenders to sleep. I sense the tension braided through his muscles, even slack in slumber, as if every limb might jerk awake at the slightest threat. The way his chest rises and falls is no longer just visible, I feel it, each breath flexing through my own ribs, my own skin. His sweat, old rain and blood, the ghost of last night’s fear—every scent lingers, pressed so deep into me it’s like the world itself is trying to claw in.

  But it’s more than that.

  I hear him.

  Not with ears, but with something deeper, some buried sixth sense unfurling inside my skull, fused into every synapse, every flicker of instinct and thought. His mind presses against mine, a continuous undercurrent of calculation, suspicion, planning, running commentary that never, ever stops.

  How many bolts left? Seventeen. Never trust Mireclaw, never trust anyone. That pit was too easy, trap, always a trap. Next time, clear the route myself. Aliza alive, good, must reinforce boundaries, keep her close, too close. Bond feels short, feels like a leash. Like she’s clinging harder. Or am I?

  His thoughts bite, angular and hard-edged, full of old wounds and the perpetual suspicion of a man who never trusts peace. There’s a flicker—something almost like relief, almost like affection, but buried under layers of hard habit and cold resolve.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  I shiver with the intimacy of it, not with cold but with the shock of knowing I’m no longer beside him, I am inside him. It should scare me. It should break me. Instead, it feeds me, makes me greedy. My tail tightens. I want to purr, to rumble my triumph into his chest, but it’s too raw, too vulnerable. I just breathe him in and let the Bond hush the trembling in my own bones, drown the leftover panic and shame of waking up helpless.

  He stirs, slow and reluctant, dragging consciousness back with the weight of a man who hates the dawn. One pale blue eye cracks open, shot through with blood and old exhaustion, gaze slicing straight through the dimness to me. His thoughts flicker, then flatten—practiced calm sliding over the anxiety like a coat of ice.

  “You’re awake,” he mutters, voice sandpaper rough and edged with old cynicism, softer than he’d let anyone else hear. “Good. We’re not dead. That’s something.”

  I cling tighter, nails pressing into his side—not to hurt, but to declare. To mark. My tail loops his waist, possessive, less comfort than warning to the world that he’s not to be touched. Hunger builds behind my teeth, more than for food. Possessive. Gnawing. A need that will never be satisfied.

  “I’m not leaving,” I growl, muffled against his chest, half threat, half promise. “Not now. Not ever. Mine.”

  The Bond surges, agreement burning through every cell. His thoughts echo it back—she’s clingier than ever. Good. Never let go. Never let anyone in between. Mireclaw’s probably plotting already, but I still have my wife, my shadow. That’s all that counts.

  He sits up, slow, joints protesting, muscles taut with old pain and new purpose. I don’t let go. Not even when he tries to shift away, not even when he starts mentally checking the steps of the day: venison, water, clear camp, stay alive. I’m locked onto him, breathing his thoughts, his intentions, the dull, tireless calculation that underpins every move he makes.

  The Bond has shrunk, sharpened, turned from a thread into a steel cable, the world outside narrowed to a five-foot leash. The space between us isn’t just physical now—it’s everything. Five feet of oxygen, five feet of law. The rest belongs to me, and I would die before I let go.

  He stands, gathering gear with the wary, relentless motions of a man who expects danger at every turn. I rise with him, shadow and monster, wife and weapon. My eyes don’t leave his, not for a heartbeat. I feel his pulse echo in mine, his plans guiding my every nerve. We are alive. We are together. The Bond is law. The Bond is a prison. But it’s our prison, and I will never let it break.