The morning after the circle felt heavier than any before.
Sunlight sliced through the narrow slits in the den walls, pale and cold. I woke slowly, body still tender from the public claiming. My hole ached with every small movement, rim puffy and sensitive, the memory of two knots locked inside me burned into every nerve. Slick had dried in sticky patches on my thighs. The collar at my throat felt permanent now, leather warm from my skin, silver ring glinting whenever I shifted.
Thorne was already up. He stood near the hearth, sharpening a blade with slow, deliberate strokes. The metallic rasp filled the quiet room. Aurelius slept beside me, arm slung possessively across my waist, breath warm against my neck. Cassian sat cross-legged on the far side, cleaning his own weapons, amber eyes
