They say a rejected bond dies. Rhys was wrong. Ours only expires. Three years ago the Alpha King of Ironhollow tore our bond apart in front of the pack and left me bleeding on the stones. He thought that was the end of me. But some bonds are cursed to renew, and at every midnight the thread frays and snaps, and I have one hour to remake it or die. The only one who can remake it with me is the man who threw me away. So now, every night, Rhys has to come back. Kneel. Choose me. Say the vow. And every vow costs him: one memory of me, burned away like it never happened. Three hundred and sixty-five nights. He has already forgotten the sound of my laugh. By winter he will forget my face. On the last night, I will make him choose a stranger. He should have killed me when he had the chance.