Adam knows before I say anything, which should not surprise me anymore because the bond has made a liar out of every belief I ever held about privacy, and because he has always been observant in a way that goes beyond command and into something quieter and more dangerous. I am sitting against the pillows with a book I have not turned a page of in ten minutes, my thoughts looping instead of settling, and he watches me from the second bed with his head tilted just enough to signal attention rather than accusation.
“You’re spiraling,” he says calmly.
I look up at him. “I’m thinking.”
“That’s what you say when you’re spiraling,” he replies.
I close the book and set it aside because pretending otherwise feels pointless, and because the worry has been sitting in my chest like a stone for hou
