"Every Alpha in range feels it," I said.
He blinked. "You know about that."
"I just found out," I said. "About thirty minutes ago."
Something crossed Deren's face. Not quite guilt. The expression of a person who understands that the timing of information is its own kind of decision, and doesn't have a clean defense of the timing.
"How long do I have?" I asked.
He looked at the mark on my wrist. A long look — assessing, clinical. "Days," he said. "Maybe less. The fight earlier—"
"Stress accelerates it," Mitch said, from the table. Not a question.
"Yes," Deren said.
I looked at my wrist. The mark I'd had my whole life. The thing Mara had put there when I was three years old to keep me hidden. The thing that had been slowly failing, and when it finished failing—
"When it breaks," I s
