Lyra didn’t sleep.
She lay on her back in the dark, staring at the ceiling as if she could force it to reveal the shape of tomorrow. Ronan’s letter sat in her mind like a splinter. It wasn’t the words that kept her awake.
It was the precision.
He hadn’t threatened her. He’d offered her mercy. He’d framed it as a choice, as an escape. As dignity. He’d handed her a knife and told her she could cut herself free before someone else used it to bleed her.
It was manipulation dressed as respect.
And it worked, because it made sense.
Lyra pressed her palm to her sternum, feeling the bond’s steady pull, the way Tyler existed on the edge of her awareness even when he wasn’t near. It wasn’t comfort. It was gravity.
Ronan knew that too.
He wasn’t trying to steal her away with promises. He was
