Maelis did not sleep.
Every time she closed her eyes, the bond tightened—hot and sharp and insistent—like a hand closing around her ribs. Not pulling her toward Ember, not comforting her, but demanding something it had no right to demand.
It had never felt like this before.
False bonds were meant to hum quietly. They were enchantments of suggestion, of attraction, of emotional gravity—not pain. Not pressure. Not this constant sense that one wrong breath might tear it open completely.
She sat on the edge of her bed, elbows braced on her knees, fingers laced tightly together as moonlight spilled across the floor. The pack house was quiet, most wolves resting uneasily after the rogue attack. Maelis could still feel the echoes of it through the bond—Ember’s adrenaline, her fear, the sharp
