He stands, gathering weapons, readying himself for another day of survival, of violence, of endless, grinding mistrust. I rise with him, never more than a breath away, shadow and wife and monster all at once. My eyes are wide, smile sharp, heart steady only because his is.

  We are alive, I think, and feel him echo it back, wordless but certain.

  He stands, no words, no soft looks, just that old noir fluidity, the kind that’s all muscle memory, precision, and the resignation of a man who never expects rest to last. I feel every intention in him as clearly as if he’d spoken them: food, water, the practical business of survival, his thoughts flickering over the venison in the pack, the water in the canteens, the need to clear the camp before anyone finds our scent. There’s never sentiment in his movements, just the necessity of living long enough to see another sunset.

  But with the Bond changed, I feel it sharper than ever. As he rises, every inch away from me isn’t just a space in the air, it’s a tearing, stinging pain in my chest, in my nerves, in my bones. Five feet. That’s the new law. The leash. The chain. And he doesn’t even register it, doesn’t feel the warning pulse, the electricity in the air, the way the universe itself tenses when he drifts toward that new edge. I do.

  He steps a foot away. I tense, claws flexing in the bedroll, tail flicking a nervous rhythm against the hide, eyes wide and unblinking, fixed on him like he’s the only safe thing in a collapsing world. Another foot, now two, and every animal part of me is screaming. Not panic. Worse. Loss. The Bond burns hot, frantic, desperate, as if it’s trying to climb out of my chest and drag him back with invisible claws.

  He’s still moving, arms already reaching for the pack, mind ticking off the order of things, venison, water, bedroll, then move.

  He’s not even looking at me now. He doesn’t feel it. Not like I do.

  Not the way the world narrows, darkens, the air thinning with every inch that widens between us. He is three feet away. I’m not breathing right. My chest tightens, claws tearing through the sleeping roll as I struggle to escape it, like drowning in silk.

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  The distance is physical, yes, but it’s more than that, it’s metaphysical, psychic, spiritual, primal. I can feel the line stretching, the invisible cord growing tauter, sharper, every heartbeat a threat. At four feet, my vision swims, panic boiling in my gut, tail lashing so hard it hurts. My body moves before my mind does, I’m up, stumbling out of the roll, one paw, then another, every instinct shrieking, every cell in my body programmed for one purpose, closeness.

  Five feet. That’s all the world will allow me. If he goes further, something will break, I know it, bone-deep, the terror lacing through every muscle, every nerve. My breath comes ragged, frantic. He is already at the edge, one hand on the pack, reaching for the venison. I throw myself forward, reckless, desperate, hands clinging to the back of his cloak, tail winding around his thigh, claws biting into the fabric as if to anchor myself against a world that wants to tear us apart.

  He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even notice. His mind is all logistics, cold and methodical, Venison, water, weapons, move. The rest is just noise. Aliza is fine, she’s healed, she’s here. That’s all that matters. Nothing else gets in.

  But to me, the distance is a cliff edge, a precipice, a knife poised above the last thread holding my sanity. I bury my face in his back, inhaling his scent so deep it burns, tail coiling tighter, needing him to feel it, needing him to know. “Don’t” I whisper, voice trembling, breath hot against his spine. “Don’t go further. Please.”

  So I cling. Harder than I ever have. Claws in his cloak, tail knotted round his waist, nose pressed into his shoulder, the word mine written in every desperate, trembling line of my body. I don’t care about dignity. I don’t care about pride. All I care about is never letting that gap yawn wider, never letting him drift out of reach, not now, not ever, not while the Bond rules me like this.

  He moves, just a little, shifting his weight to balance the pack, the venison, the canteens. I move with him, shadow to his substance, heartbeat to his breath, unwilling and unable to let even an inch open between us. The pain recedes as I close the gap, replaced by relief so fierce it makes my legs weak.

  He mutters something, dry and cynical, a noir ghost of a smile flickering at the edge of his mouth. “You really are stuck to me like glue now, aren’t you, kitten?” The words are dismissive, but his hand brushes my ear, and I know, deep down, beneath all the cool, the control, the suspicion, he needs me just as much as I need him.

  I hold on tighter, purring low and wild, eyes never leaving his, daring the world to try and come between us. Five feet. That’s all it gets. The rest is ours, and I will kill anyone who tries to take it away.