The pain hit at three in the morning.
Not the dull ache I'd grown used to over the past months—the constant reminder of a mate bond I'd shattered through my own stupidity. This was different. Sharp, immediate, like someone was driving hot needles through my chest while simultaneously trying to rip my heart out through my throat.
I rolled off my bed, hitting the hardwood floor of my apartment hard enough to jar every bone in my body. The impact barely registered compared to what was happening inside my ribcage.
"Fuck," I gasped, curling into a ball as another wave hit. This wasn't just rejection pain anymore. This was something else, something that felt like the bond itself was trying to reform while being actively resisted.
Through the agony, one thought cut through with crystal clarity: Aria was in danger.
