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Rollo froze, heart thudding a rhythm his bear growled against. She hadn’t seen him yet, thank the stars. He took a breath, then another, willing himself to keep walking.

But fate was never the polite kind.

She turned.

Hazel eyes locked with his. Hers narrowed. His widened.

Then the whole world narrowed down to the look she gave him—the one that saidyou left me,without speaking a single word.

“Delilah,” he said. Her name cracked in his throat like dry bark.

And she… didn’t respond. Not really. Not unless you counted that deadly tilt of her chin.

It stung.

“Can we talk?” he asked, voice lower now, softer. The kits chirped behind him like backup singers to his failure.

“No,” she snapped, all velvet fury and elegance, and then she was gone—walking fast enough to almost call it a jog across the street and to the apothecary.

And Rollo just stood there.

He let out a long breath and rubbed a hand across his jaw. His beard was too long—Delilah always said it made him look like a mountain hermit, which, to be fair, wasn’t wrong.

“Welcome back,” he muttered to himself.

A pedestrian vampire chuckled as he passed.

Back atWolfe & Whiskers Sanctuary, the air was quieter, but not by much. The moment Rollo opened the gate, a chorus of magical chirps and howls rose from the pens. The phoenix pup—charred feathers still molting—let out a disgruntled squeak and flapped pitifully toward him.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m late.”

He dropped the feed sack and crouched beside the enclosure, his big hands gentle as he cleaned out the water bowl and replaced it with fresh springwater. The pup nuzzled his wrist, sparks flickering across its beak.

“Don't give me those eyes,” Rollo murmured. “I just ran into a ghost wearing my mate’s skin.”

He didn’t like the word mate. Not anymore.

The bond had snapped into place years ago like a trap sprung too soon. He hadn’t been ready. Not for the responsibility. Not for the heat of it. And sure as sin not for Delilah’s heart in his hands.

So he’d run, tried to push down what he felt he wasn’t ready for.

And she’d left.

And nothing had felt right since.

Inside the sanctuary cabin, the scent of cedar and tea tree clung to the wooden walls. Rollo set a kettle on the woodstove, then moved to the window overlooking the woods. The trees whispered with the wind, voices low and restless.

“She's back,” he said aloud.

No one responded, but the spirits in the woods shifted, branches creaking like joints waking from slumber.

Hazel Fairweather’s words came back to him like they often did when the forest grew too quiet.

"The bond isn't a curse, Rollo. It's a seed. It grows if you let it. And if you don't… it'll rot you from the inside out."

Well, he was already halfway rotten.

The kettle whistled.