I waited until Dante's breathing had settled into the deep rhythm of exhausted sleep before I slipped from our bed. Each movement was carefully calculated—I'd learned to move without disturbing the bond enough to wake him, though it took considerable effort to mask my emotional turmoil.
The moonlight streaming through our bedroom window cast silver patterns across his face, highlighting the new hollows beneath his cheekbones, the slight tremor in his hands even in sleep. Three more days had passed since my conversation with Sage, and the deterioration was accelerating. Sarah's latest examination had confirmed my worst fears—we had perhaps two weeks before the drain became irreversible.
I dressed silently and made my way through the house we'd built together, past the nursery we'd prepare
