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“Tough night, Dalmar?” My voice cuts through the stillness, too loud on purpose.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even look up. I push off the frame and cross the space, slow and deliberate, letting my footsteps echo sharp against the concrete. He doesn’t react, not until I stop beside him, close enough to see the tension in his jaw, the storm barely stitched together beneath his skin.

“You gonna sulk forever, or can we skip to the part where you admit you’re pissed because you care?”

That earns me a look. Sharp. Dangerous. All the things Ambrose thinks keeps people out, when really—it’s just another invitation.

His mouth twists, not quite a smile, not quite a snarl. “I don’t need a lecture from you, Veyd.”

I grin, wide and reckless. “You’re getting one anyway.”

I lean my hip against the bench, turning to face him fully, arms crossed like I’m ready to start something I won’t finish.

“You think you’re the only one who didn’t want this?” I gesture vaguely at the space between us, the house, the Academy, the mess we’ve crawled out of night after night. “Newsflash, Ambrose. None of us wanted it. We didn’t want to be bound. We didn’t want to care. And then Luna walked in and ruined everything.”

He laughs, low and bitter, a sound like gravel under boots. “She didn’t ruin me.”

“You’re standing here in an empty garage like you’re trying to remember how to breathe. She ruined you.”

He drags a hand through his hair, fingers curling into the back of his neck like he could hold himself together with nothing but pressure.

“You’re pissed,” I continue, voice quieter now, cutting sharp and clean. “Because it wasn’t supposed to happen to you.”

He doesn’t deny it.

I watch him for a second longer, then push away from the bench, closing the space until I’m right in front of him, close enough he can’t look anywhere else but at me.

“I was you once, you know,” I murmur, voice soft like a knife slipping between ribs. “I spent centuries refusing to be bound. Refusing to let anyone close enough to matter. Then Luna showed up, and I fought it, and I lost.”

I shrug, careless and sharp. “Best thing I ever did.”

His gaze flicks to mine, something jagged and quiet lurking in it.

“She’s not a prison,” I say, softer now. “She’s the fucking key.”

Ambrose’s throat works, like he wants to argue, wants to spit something cruel, but the words never come.

He just breathes. Tight. Shallow. Like he hasn’t figured out how to survive this yet.

I lean back, giving him a little space, but not enough to let him run.

“You don’t have to want it,” I say. “But you’re bound now. And the sooner you stop fighting her, the sooner you’ll figure out you were never losing.”

Ambrose is still pretending he can breathe without choking on it.

I watch him—the way his jaw flexes, the faint tremor at the corner of his mouth like he’s holding his teeth together just to keep from cracking down the middle. He’s braced against the workbench like it’ll hold him upright when we both know it won’t.

He’s bound now. And the only thing holding him together is the lie he keeps whispering to himself.

I sigh like this is exhausting—which, honestly, it is—and dig into the pocket of my hoodie, fingers brushing lint, a crumpled receipt, and finally, the joint I’ve been saving for when shit really hit the fan.

This qualifies.

There’s a little fuzz stuck to the end, but it’s mostly intact. I fish it out, roll it between my fingers, and glance sideways at him.

“You know how this works, right?” My voice cuts through the space, sharper now, the smirk gone. “You can’t force a bond.”

Ambrose doesn’t look at me, but his jaw tightens just enough to tell me he’s listening.