I built walls around the need for a bond, using my dominance in the bedroom to hide how much I fear being left behind by everyone who ever got close.

Moira Quade's rolling limp and quiet strength pull at those walls every time we patrol the river together, her touch on the markers turning duty into something far more dangerous.

In the candlelit archives, with the rival's threat gone, her order to knot under the Blood Moon promises the alpha claim we both crave. The heavy scent of arousal on the table makes it impossible to pretend this is only about power. Every shared breath pulls us closer to the lock that could save the pack or destroy what little control I have left. I ache for the security it offers, but the real risk is her seeing through my dominance and walking away once the lock releases.