The wedding dress hung on Akira like moonlight trying to contain a winter storm. Malia's fingers worked the pearl buttons, each one a small betrayal of everything wild, everything true. Through silk that whispered lies about civilization, Akira's skin remembered twelve thousand winters of honest cold.
"Is too tight." The words scraped out wrong, always wrong in this modern mouth. "Cannot breathe proper. Cannot run."
"You're not supposed to run at your own wedding." Malia's therapist-voice, soothing as spring rain, couldn't quite hide her anxiety. Through the window, the crowd gathered below—pack and predators and somewhere among them, poison dressed in designer clothes.
Elena materialized in the doorway, tactical gear strapped beneath bridesmaid silk, the contradiction somehow perfect.
