LANDON
I feel it before she leaves.
Not the movement itself, not the quiet shift of weight off the mattress or the careful way she closes the door, but the change in the bond, the subtle recalibration that feels like a blade sliding free from its sheath after being held too long in restraint.
It is not reckless.
It is not emotional.
It is deliberate.
Cheyenne does not flare when she makes decisions anymore, she tightens, and that tightening hums through me now, controlled and sharp.
I lie still for a moment longer, staring at the ceiling while the dark presses low over the packhouse, and I count my breaths instead of getting up immediately, because the council expects one reaction from me and I refuse to hand it to them.
They expect confrontation.
They expect an Alpha who clamps d
