The waiting is worse than the fighting ever was, because at least violence announces itself, sharp and immediate, while this feels like standing on a fault line and feeling the tremor without knowing when the ground will finally give way. The sitting room grows stuffy as time stretches, stone walls holding in the tension until it presses against my ribs, and I find myself pacing again despite promising myself I would stay still.
Adam watches me without comment, his presence steady but taut, the bond humming low and alert between us like a wire pulled tight enough to sing if touched. Justin has taken position near the door, arms folded, expression carefully neutral, the posture of someone who expects interruption at any moment and intends to meet it head-on.
“They are circling,” Justin sa
