Chapter 15, A new Bond
When I awake, Master is still wrapped around me.
Bonded Soul has leved up, level III
-The psychic bond is now reduced to 5 ft from level II's 10 ft due to heightened dependency.
-Innate Tracking, Aliza now subconsciously monitors Master's heart rate, scent, muscle tension, and bodily intentions at all times as baseline instinct.
-Real-Time thought Echo, Aliza can now hear Masters thoughts in real time without checks however still requires a wisdom throw to see his memories.
I don’t move, not at first. My tail flicks, gently, curling around his thigh, not just for comfort, but because I have to, the impulse not even a choice anymore. Every part of me is aware of him, hyper-aware, as if all my other senses have gone numb to make room for the flood of information from the Bond. I can feel his heartbeat, slowed with sleep, not quite calm, the pace of someone who rests like a soldier, always one breath from the next fight. I smell his sweat, the lingering traces of blood and deer hide and old rain on his skin. I sense the tension wound through his muscles even in repose, the way his fingers twitch, half-dreaming of knives, of loss, of control. I can feel the tiny movements of his breathing, the way his chest expands and contracts, the way his ribs flex when he exhales too sharply, the faintest tremor in his jaw as he grinds his teeth against some silent threat in his dreams.
More than that... I HEAR HIM
Not with ears. With something deeper, something inside me now, fused into every synapse. His thoughts drift into mine, an endless undercurrent of calculation, suspicion, sharp little asides, the running commentary of a mind that never truly rests.
How many bolts left? Seventeen. Never trust Mireclaw, never trust anyone. That rat hole was too convenient, trap, always a trap. Next time, clear the route myself. Aliza, alive, good, must reinforce boundaries, keep her close, too close. The Bond however feels different, shorter. Feels like a leash now. Like she’s clinging harder. Or am I?
His thoughts are sharp, angular things, full of worry and the slow-burning certainty of someone who never truly trusts peace. I shiver, not from cold, but from the intimacy, the certainty that I am no longer beside him, but INSIDE HIM.
I want to purr, but I don’t. Too vulnerable. I tuck my face against his chest, breathing him in, letting the Bond quiet my nerves and hush the trembling that still lingers from the cold, the fear, the humiliation of being dragged, helpless, through hell.
I could stay like this forever. But forever isn’t real. The world is already scratching at the door, hunger in its claws, violence in its eyes.
He stirs slowly, reluctance painted in every line of his body. One eye cracks open, ice blue and bloodshot, cutting straight through the gloom to me. His thoughts spike, flicker, then smooth, the practiced calm of a man putting on his mask before the city can see what’s underneath.
“You’re awake,” he mutters, voice thick with sleep and old cynicism, but softer than anyone else would ever hear. “Good. We’re not dead. That’s something.”
I tighten my grip, nails digging into his side, not to hurt, but to remind him, and myself, that we are still alive, still together. My tail wraps around his waist, locking us together in a way that is less comfort and more declaration of territory.
I can feel the hunger rising behind my teeth, that possessive, gnawing need. “I’m not leaving,” I breathe, words muffled against his chest, more threat than promise. “Not now. Not ever. Mine.” The Bond thrums in agreement, every part of me singing with it, desperate and unashamed.
He smirks, a tired, crooked little thing. She’s clingier than ever. Good. Never let go. Never let anyone between us. Mireclaw’s probably already plotting. If she survived. But I still have my wife. Still have my shadow. That’s all that counts. For now.
He pushes himself up, slow and stiff, untangling from me only enough to get his bearings. I don’t let him go, not fully, fingers locked into his tunic, eyes half-wild. I feel every calculation in his mind, the weighing of risk, the tick of options, the old paranoia that’s saved us both more than once. I bask in it, letting the current of his intentions guide my own, our instincts no longer parallel but truly fused.
The world outside the sleeping roll is colder, harsher, but I don’t care. As long as I can feel his pulse, his thoughts, his scent, I can take anything. I’ll kill for him. I’ll die for him. I’ll burn the world down for him, and laugh in the ashes, so long as he’s by my side.
The bond is smaller now. More desperate. But it’s unbreakable. The distance between us is a prison, but it’s a prison I would die in gladly. Five feet. That’s all the world will ever get. The rest belongs to me.
He stands, gathering weapons, readying himself for another day of survival, of violence, of endless, grinding mistrust. I rise with him, never more than a breath away, shadow and wife and monster all at once. My eyes are wide, smile sharp, heart steady only because his is.
We are alive, I think, and feel him echo it back, wordless but certain.
He stands, no words, no soft looks, just that old noir fluidity, the kind that’s all muscle memory, precision, and the resignation of a man who never expects rest to last. I feel every intention in him as clearly as if he’d spoken them: food, water, the practical business of survival, his thoughts flickering over the venison in the pack, the water in the canteens, the need to clear the camp before anyone finds our scent. There’s never sentiment in his movements, just the necessity of living long enough to see another sunset.
But with the Bond changed, I feel it sharper than ever. As he rises, every inch away from me isn’t just a space in the air, it’s a tearing, stinging pain in my chest, in my nerves, in my bones. Five feet. That’s the new law. The leash. The chain. And he doesn’t even register it, doesn’t feel the warning pulse, the electricity in the air, the way the universe itself tenses when he drifts toward that new edge. I do.
He steps a foot away. I tense, claws flexing in the bedroll, tail flicking a nervous rhythm against the hide, eyes wide and unblinking, fixed on him like he’s the only safe thing in a collapsing world. Another foot, now two, and every animal part of me is screaming. Not panic. Worse. Loss. The Bond burns hot, frantic, desperate, as if it’s trying to climb out of my chest and drag him back with invisible claws.
He’s still moving, arms already reaching for the pack, mind ticking off the order of things, venison, water, bedroll, then move.
He’s not even looking at me now. He doesn’t feel it. Not like I do.
Not the way the world narrows, darkens, the air thinning with every inch that widens between us. He is three feet away. I’m not breathing right. My chest tightens, claws tearing through the sleeping roll as I struggle to escape it, like drowning in silk.
The distance is physical, yes, but it’s more than that, it’s metaphysical, psychic, spiritual, primal. I can feel the line stretching, the invisible cord growing tauter, sharper, every heartbeat a threat. At four feet, my vision swims, panic boiling in my gut, tail lashing so hard it hurts. My body moves before my mind does, I’m up, stumbling out of the roll, one paw, then another, every instinct shrieking, every cell in my body programmed for one purpose, closeness.
Five feet. That’s all the world will allow me. If he goes further, something will break, I know it, bone-deep, the terror lacing through every muscle, every nerve. My breath comes ragged, frantic. He is already at the edge, one hand on the pack, reaching for the venison. I throw myself forward, reckless, desperate, hands clinging to the back of his cloak, tail winding around his thigh, claws biting into the fabric as if to anchor myself against a world that wants to tear us apart.
He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even notice. His mind is all logistics, cold and methodical, Venison, water, weapons, move. The rest is just noise. Aliza is fine, she’s healed, she’s here. That’s all that matters. Nothing else gets in.
But to me, the distance is a cliff edge, a precipice, a knife poised above the last thread holding my sanity. I bury my face in his back, inhaling his scent so deep it burns, tail coiling tighter, needing him to feel it, needing him to know. “Don’t” I whisper, voice trembling, breath hot against his spine. “Don’t go further. Please.”
So I cling. Harder than I ever have. Claws in his cloak, tail knotted round his waist, nose pressed into his shoulder, the word mine written in every desperate, trembling line of my body. I don’t care about dignity. I don’t care about pride. All I care about is never letting that gap yawn wider, never letting him drift out of reach, not now, not ever, not while the Bond rules me like this.
He moves, just a little, shifting his weight to balance the pack, the venison, the canteens. I move with him, shadow to his substance, heartbeat to his breath, unwilling and unable to let even an inch open between us. The pain recedes as I close the gap, replaced by relief so fierce it makes my legs weak.
He mutters something, dry and cynical, a noir ghost of a smile flickering at the edge of his mouth. “You really are stuck to me like glue now, aren’t you, kitten?” The words are dismissive, but his hand brushes my ear, and I know, deep down, beneath all the cool, the control, the suspicion, he needs me just as much as I need him.
I hold on tighter, purring low and wild, eyes never leaving his, daring the world to try and come between us. Five feet. That’s all it gets. The rest is ours, and I will kill anyone who tries to take it away.
His hand is halfway to the pack, the thought of venison already blooming in his mind, meat first, then water, then get moving before the next problem crawls out of the dark, but before muscle or bone can even answer, I know. The Bond sings the warning. I taste the change in his pulse, the subtle tensing of shoulders, the way his breath shortens by a half second as hunger flickers in his gut. I hear it, sense it, smell it, the intent as clear as words spoken, as vivid as a slap.
I move before he does. No hesitation. Not now, not ever again. I surge up and catch his wrist in both hands, claws pressing just enough to warn, not to hurt, yet. My grip is iron, all muscle and desperate, wild need. His eyes flicker down in surprise, only for a second, before I haul him back, twisting him until we’re face to face, nose to nose, a single ragged breath between us. He’s taller, broader, always a presence that fills the world, but in this instant, it’s not size or logic or any noir mask that matters. It’s will. It’s hunger. It’s me.
I stare, unblinking, the wildness flooding every line of my face, eyes blown wide, pupils sharp slits, ears flat, lips parted just enough to bare a hint of fang. My tail lashes, winding once, twice, then locking round his waist like a living shackle. Every muscle in my body is rigid, every instinct tuned to him and only him. The world outside the five-foot leash may as well not exist. All that matters is here, the place where his scent and heartbeat and the Bond collide.
He tries to speak, maybe. Maybe he means to shrug me off, offer some cynical, world-weary line about priorities and moving forward and not getting too attached. I see the words forming before he can even open his mouth, I hear them, feel the shape of them echo down the Bond. But I don’t let him. I refuse.
I tighten my grip, drag him closer until our foreheads touch, so close I can see my reflection in the pale blue of his eyes, haunted, tired, but burning with a cold fire that matches my own. I lock my gaze on his, unblinking, pupils wide and wild, every thought sharpened to a single, primal truth.
“MINE" I snarl, voice a ragged promise, a challenge, a plea all at once. My breath fans across his cheek, hot and trembling, a scent-mark as much as a warning. "MINE" I pour everything into that word, rage, need, terror, devotion. The Bond crackles between us, tightening, burning, a current so fierce it makes my ears ring.
The world narrows to this, his eyes, my claws, the pulse in his neck that beats for me and me alone. I won’t let him turn away. I won’t let the distance stretch, not even for a heartbeat, not even for food or water or survival. Nothing matters but this claim, this boundary, this law that binds us together in blood and need and hunger that has nothing to do with flesh.
His thoughts stutter, surprise flickering behind his mask, and for a moment he’s silent, just looking at me, measuring the storm in my stare, the feral, unbreakable truth of my obsession. He sees it, feels it, the Bond throbbing with every frantic, wordless demand.
My voice drops to a whisper, trembling with the edge of madness and love. “Don’t leave me. Don’t turn away. You’re mine, and I’ll break anyone, anything, that tries to take you from me. The world outside this Bond is death. Here” I press my palm to his chest, feeling his heart thud under my hand, “here is life. Here is mine.”
The command slams through the Bond, not like before, this time it’s overwhelming, absolute, a storm that snaps through bone and nerve.
"HEEL"
My head drops, chin pressed against my chest, will short-circuited. It’s not pain, it’s not even humiliation, it’s compulsion, pure and simple, as if my body isn’t mine, as if every muscle is a marionette’s string and Master’s hand pulls them taut. My tail goes still, claws retracting, all the feral wildness in me pressed flat beneath a single word.
I don’t have time to snarl, to struggle, to resist. I feel him, not just his presence, but the intricate machinery of his intent, the quicksilver thoughts flickering through his head: She needs food, real food, not scraps. Double portion. Strength first. Get her moving, get her angry, get her alive. No weakness. Never again.
A rough hand, his hand, slides beneath my chin, lifts my head up. He’s there, gaze iron, mouth unreadable. Dried venison appears in front of my lips, the scent immediate, overwhelming, sharp with salt, game, the faint sweetness of smoked meat. My body, starved for real sustenance, aches for it. But before I can think, before hunger can flare into defiance or gratitude, the next command hits, harder, more intimate: “Open.”
My jaw parts as if of its own accord, lips twitching, teeth exposed, tongue wet and ready. The Bond doesn’t just suggest, it moves me. I feel his intention ripple into my muscles before the word even leaves his mouth, every part of me shaped for his desire, his need, his strategy. I am a vessel, a weapon, a cherished pet, all in one.
He pushes the venison between my lips, firm but careful, and my mouth closes around it, hunger and obedience merging. I chew, swallow, shudder, feeling the calories hit like a surge of power. He doesn’t let go, doesn’t allow me to pretend this is my choice. His thoughts echo, constant and relentless: She has to be strong. She has to be mine. No one breaks her. Not hunger, not fear, not even herself.
The meat is tough, smoky, laced with the memory of old fires and the iron tang of blood. My throat works, swallowing again and again, each bite refuelling something deep and primal. I feel the nourishment surge into empty veins, dulling the ache, brightening the spark behind my eyes. My ears flick, tail giving a single twitch, energy crawling back under my skin.
I sense it all, his vigilance, his calculation, the raw force of will behind every act. The Bond is so tight it feels like a vice, and I realise I am living entirely at the whim of his thoughts now, anticipation blurring with command. I want it. I need it. His hunger for my strength becomes my own. His desire for my survival overrides every other instinct. My jaw works, obedient, grateful, desperate.
He moves to give me another piece, not a word spoken, just intent, command, and I open before he even needs to say it. The Bond is no longer just a tether; it’s a living, pulsing path, a circuit of need and power and certainty.
I don’t resist. I swallow every piece, never blinking, never looking away, eyes wide and locked on his. I let him see my devotion, my hunger, my shame, my gratitude. Everything I am, every broken, wild, violent thing,belongs to him in this moment. He wants me strong, so I eat. He wants me close, so I cling. He wants me alive, and so I obey.
For him, for us, for the Bond. For the five feet that define the universe.
