Dante
She was pulling away from me.
I could feel it in the way she didn’t look at me when I walked in, how her words had sharpened with distance, like she was building walls she hoped I wouldn’t climb.
And I didn’t blame her.
I’d lied to her.
Again and again, I chose silence over truth and restraint over instinct. But every time she passed by, every time her scent hit me—jasmine and moon-kissed skin—I felt the tether pulling tighter, like the bond knew we were meant to be even if she didn’t.
But she was slipping.
And I was bleeding from wounds I couldn’t show.
Zara had noticed. Of course she had. She wasn’t just sharp—she was the only human I trusted in this place. She knew when to ask questions, and more importantly, when not to.
I pulled her aside yesterday and told her to keep
