Silas was dragged away, his political threat neutralized, but the Clan was bruised and tense. Back in Kaelan's office, the adrenaline of the confrontation evaporated, leaving a raw emotional hangover. The Mate Bond, which had been humming with tension and purpose, now settled into a low, deep ache of shared exhaustion.
Kaelan sank into his chair, rubbing his temples. He looked utterly drained, the Alpha Command temporarily muted by stress.
Anya watched him, the bond broadcasting his vulnerability. She didn't hate the feeling; she resented it. It tied her fate to his recovery.
"You saved me," Kaelan finally admitted, his voice rough. "You could have run. You risked your life to expose Silas."
"I risked my life to survive," Anya corrected, her voice sharp. "If Silas had won, he would have killed me to eliminate the evidence. You are simply the lesser threat."
"Perhaps," Kaelan conceded. He looked at her neck, where the bite mark was almost invisible. "Tell me about the Command. Why were you able to resist in the office? The bond is absolute."
Anya explained the pain of the feedback loop, detailing the agonizing compromise of her free will versus the physical cost of his anger.
Kaelan stood, moving to her side. He lifted his hand, & Anya instinctively flinched, expecting a dominating touch. Instead, he simply rested his fingers against the back of her neck, right over the scar.
"The bond punishes my rage because it views you as essential," he murmured, his gaze intense. "If I want your genius, I must preserve your spirit. We are linked, Mate. You are not just a prisoner; you are a required function of my survival."
The gesture was possessive, but also strangely therapeutic, a physical acknowledgement of their impossible interdependence.