The silence after I say it stretches long enough to hurt, thick and unmoving, like the cabin itself has frozen around us to hear their answer, and Axel is the first one to break it, not with words but with a sharp exhale as he turns away and drags a hand through his hair, pacing the length of the room like the walls are closing in. Atticus doesn’t move at all, his gaze fixed on me with an intensity that makes my chest tighten, because I can see the conflict there, the instinct pulling him one way and the understanding pulling him another.
“That’s not what marking is for,” Axel says finally, his voice rough, controlled only by sheer effort, “it’s not leverage, it’s not strategy, it’s not something you do to make a point.”
“I know,” I reply quietly, holding my ground even as the weight of
