The world didn't just go quiet for Darien, it went dead. He stood like a jagged monument in the center of that sterile, beige administrative hallway, the distant thrum of the party's string quartet sounding like nothing more than the buzzing of annoying flies. He wasn't looking at the scuffed marble or the faint, silver glint of the broken purse chain anymore. Eyes were useless. Human logic was a failing currency.
He closed his eyes, drawing in a breath that felt like it was composed of liquid mercury. He was reaching. Not for a physical trail, but for the invisible, metaphysical tether that should have been his birthright.
The Mate Bond.
It was there, but barely. Because he had played the role of the refined gentleman, because he had been too cautious, too terrified of her reaction to fully "seal" their connection, the bond was a ghost. A frayed, translucent thread that whipped violently in the emotional storm currently ravaging his psyche.
