I lasted two more days.
Two days of pretending. Two days of lies. Two days of feeling the mate bond stretch tighter and tighter between us, like a rubber band about to snap.
Damien knew something was wrong. He watched me constantly, worry etched in every line of his face. But he didn't push. Didn't demand answers.
Maybe he was afraid of what I'd say.
Maybe I was afraid too.
But on the third morning, when he touched my shoulder gently and asked, "Claire, please. Talk to me. Whatever's wrong, we can fix it together," something in me broke.
"Can we?" I turned to face him. "Can we really fix it? Or are you just saying that because you think it's what I want to hear?"
He blinked, taken aback. "What? Claire, I don't understand—"
"The Luna trials," I said flatly. "Tell me about them."
The color drained from his face.
And that—that moment of guilty recognition—was all the confirmation I needed.
