The war room gift was a small wooden box wrapped in the same oilcloth my mother had used to protect old letters.
I stood at the head of the obsidian table, the collar cold and heavy against my throat, the silver wolf inside me muted to a faint whisper.
The bond with Damien was still there, a steady golden thread, but it felt distant now, like trying to hear music through thick glass. The full moon was only hours away. I could feel it pulling at the edges of my mind, a low, insistent tug that the collar couldn’t completely silence.
Damien stood at my right shoulder, his hand resting lightly on the small of my back. The touch was simple, but the bond carried the quiet heat that never quite faded — the memory of his body against mine the night before, the way he had held me like I was bot
