The room was prepared with mathematical cruelty.
No banners.
No witnesses.
No unnecessary ornament.
Just stone, silence, and distance measured down to the inch.
Veyla stood at the threshold, palms cool despite the warmth in her chest. The ache beneath her ribs had not intensified yet—but it waited, coiled and patient, as if it knew something was about to change.
"Ten minutes," the aide said stiffly, gesturing to the etched markings on the floor. "No closer than the inner ring."
Veyla nodded. "I understand."
The door closed behind her.
Khorg Ironmaw was already inside.
He stood at the far end of the chamber, precisely where the sigils indicated, boots planted as if the stone itself might give way beneath him. His shoulders were squared, posture disciplined—but his breathing betrayed him.
Slow.
Controlled.
Too controlled.
The moment the door sealed, his nose twitched.
Hard.
The scent hit him in a clean, contained wave—stronger than it had been in public, stripped of distraction and diluted air. Fermented magic scraped against his senses, layered over something warm and dangerous that made his wolf surge forward with a snarl.
Mate.
His stomach clenched violently.
Khorg swallowed, jaw tightening as bile rose sharply in his throat. He forced it down through sheer will, breath rasping through clenched teeth.
*Hold.*
Across the space, Veyla felt it.
The bond tightened instantly, no longer flaring wildly but pulling inward, dense and heavy. Heat bloomed beneath her skin, sharp enough to steal her breath for half a second.
She steadied herself.
"Alpha," she said quietly.
Khorg lifted his head.
Their eyes met.
The ache shifted.
Not worse.
Different.
"I'm here," he replied, voice rough. "At your pace."
That—more than anything—made her chest ache.
Veyla took one careful step forward.
The bond hummed.
Khorg's wolf surged, thrilled by the reduced distance. His human body rebelled in tandem, stomach rolling painfully as scent intensified.
Sweat prickled along his spine.
He did not move.
"You can stop," he said hoarsely.
"I know," Veyla replied.
She took another step.
Five rings remained between them.
The ache sharpened for her, a tight pressure wrapping around her heart—not pain exactly, but proximity awareness so acute it bordered on hunger.
Khorg's hands curled slowly into fists.
His wolf howled.
Not in rage.
In yearning.
His stomach lurched again, sharp and acidic, making his vision blur at the edges. He inhaled shallowly through his mouth, grounding himself in the rough scrape of stone beneath his boots.
*Protect her,* the wolf demanded.
*Do not touch,* the body screamed.
The contradiction tore at him.
Veyla stopped at the third ring.
Her breath came shallow now, chest rising and falling too quickly. The bond pulsed hard, heat and ache intertwining until it was difficult to tell where one ended and the other began.
"This is enough," she said softly.
Khorg nodded immediately.
Relief and disappointment collided violently inside him.
The silence stretched.
It was not empty.
It was thick—weighted with everything they were not allowed to do.
"I almost broke you," Khorg said finally, voice low.
Veyla shook her head. "No. You stopped."
"That doesn't erase what almost happened."
"No," she agreed. "But it matters more."
The bond responded—not with pain, but with a strange steadiness, as if acknowledging the distinction.
Khorg felt it.
His wolf quieted slightly, confused but attentive.
"I don't want to hurt you," he said.
Veyla met his gaze, eyes clear. "I don't want you to disappear."
The words landed heavier than any accusation.
Khorg's breath hitched.
Distance hurt.
Closeness destroyed.
There was no safe choice—only managed ones.
Minutes passed.
They did not move.
Khorg's nausea ebbed into a dull churn, tolerable but persistent. Sweat dampened the back of his neck, instincts held on a leash so tight it burned.
Veyla's ache settled into a low, constant throb—uncomfortable, but survivable. She focused on her breathing, on the sound of his steady presence across the space.
This—*this*—was what Zora meant.
Not endurance.
Management.
When the door opened again, the interruption felt almost violent.
Vinculus Noctaryn stood at the threshold.
The shift was immediate.
The bond reacted sharply, recalibrating to a new vector. Veyla's breath caught as the pressure beneath her ribs changed—cooler, tighter, edged with something sharp and invasive.
Vinculus stepped inside with deliberate care, stopping precisely at the outer ring.
Khorg stiffened.
His wolf snarled.
Territory.
Threat.
Vinculus ignored him.
His attention fixed on Veyla.
The scent brushed him instantly—less overwhelming than it was for Khorg, but no less offensive. It threaded through his senses, destabilizing the careful balance of his blood, sending a thin, cold ache through his chest.
He hated it.
And hated that distance did not free him from it.
"You're stable," he observed quietly.
"For now," Veyla replied.
Vinculus's gaze flicked briefly to Khorg, then back to her. "The Alpha tolerates it."
"Tolerates," Khorg echoed darkly.
Vinculus inclined his head slightly. "An achievement."
Khorg's growl rumbled low.
Veyla raised a hand. "Enough."
The word cut cleanly through the tension.
Both men stilled.
The bond pulsed—firm, insistent.
"This is scheduled proximity," she said evenly. "Not a contest."
Vinculus studied her for a long moment.
Then, slowly, he nodded. "Understood."
He shifted his stance just enough to test the boundary.
The ache in his blood sharpened unpleasantly, making his jaw tighten. He masked it effortlessly.
"Your control is… improving," he said. "But it comes at a cost."
"I know," Veyla replied.
Khorg watched her closely.
She was pale now, breath shallow again.
He took one instinctive half-step forward—and stopped himself.
The bond flared warningly.
Khorg cursed under his breath and retreated, planting his feet firmly.
Veyla noticed.
Something warm and dangerous stirred beneath the ache.
"Time," the aide called from outside the door.
The word fell like a blade.
Veyla exhaled slowly.
She took one step back.
The relief was immediate—and devastating.
Khorg felt it like something tearing loose inside his chest. The nausea vanished abruptly, replaced by a hollow ache so sharp it made his vision swim.
Vinculus felt it too—a sudden emptiness, cold and gnawing, as if something essential had been removed without permission.
Veyla steadied herself, heart pounding.
So this was the other edge.
The one distance carved.
She lifted her chin.
"Thank you," she said softly. "Both of you."
Khorg bowed his head.
Vinculus inclined his.
As the door opened and the room began to breathe again, one truth settled heavily between them:
This was not safety.
This was dependency—measured, rationed, and terrifying in its quietness.