CHEYENNE
I feel it before he says it.
Not words.
Pressure.
Not sharp enough to hurt.
Not loud enough to accuse.
Just steady and deliberate.
Tell me what you’re hunting before they force my hand.
The bond carries it without demand, but there is weight in it. Not fear. Not anger. A line drawn in quiet urgency.
I don’t dodge it.
I don’t soften it either.
I finish brushing my teeth first.
Mint burns along my gums as I scrub harder than necessary, watching my reflection in the mirror blur through steam from the shower I took too long in. Routine anchors clarity. I need my head clean before I give him anything.
Layla is still beneath my ribs.
Not defensive.
Not coiled.
Listening.
He’s not pushing, she murmurs.
“No,” I answer internally. “He’s asking.”
There’s a difference.
I
