The days that follow blur together, tense and tightly controlled.
I am not confined—but I am not free.
Ronan assigns guards outside his quarters and the infirmary both, rotating shifts every few hours. He doesn't announce it as protection, but everyone understands what it is. A message. To his pack. To the Council. To anyone watching from beyond the borders.
These are mine.
Jonah heals quickly, physically at least. Wolves always do. The bruising fades from purple to yellow, the swelling around his eye recedes, and the limp eases into a stiffness that will be gone within days.
The damage beneath the skin lingers.
I feel it through the bond—his hesitation, his instinct to make himself smaller, quieter. He flinches when voices rise. Apologizes too quickly. Thanks everyone for everything.
Each time, guilt twists tighter around my heart.
Ronan notices.
He notices everything.
"You're hovering," he says one evening as we walk the inner grounds.
"I'm concerned," I reply.
"You're suffocating him."
I stop short. "I'm trying to help."
"Then listen," Ronan counters coolly. "Not everything broken wants to be handled."
I bite back a retort, knowing he's right even as resentment sparks. "You don't get to decide how I make amends."
His gaze sharpens. "No. But I do decide how my pack survives."
The words sting more than they should.
*
The Council doesn't wait long to probe for weakness.
Two days after the meeting, a formal challenge arrives from the Ashen Ridge Pack—an "inspection," thinly veiled as concern over instability caused by an Omega-linked bond.
Ronan laughs when he reads it.
"Let them come," he says. "They won't like what they find."
Preparations begin immediately. Warriors train harder. Patrols double. The pack hums with barely contained aggression, excitement threading through the link like static.
I feel it all.
The bond has settled into something new—not stable, but… functional. Three points of awareness instead of two. When Jonah laughs softly at something a healer says, warmth spreads through my chest. When Ronan issues orders on the training field, confidence anchors me, steady and unyielding.
And when I'm overwhelmed, both of them feel it.
That realization terrifies me.
The inspection turns into a confrontation before noon.
Ashen Ridge arrives with thirty warriors and their Alpha, Garrick, a broad man with cruel eyes and a smile that never reaches them.
He doesn't bow deeply enough.
His gaze lingers on Jonah just a second too long.
"Interesting choice," Garrick says mildly. "An Omega mate."
Ronan doesn't move. Doesn't snarl.
The air stills.
"Choose your next words carefully," Ronan says.
Garrick chuckles. "We're only concerned about precedent. If Omegas start believing they're entitled to—"
He never finishes the sentence.
Ronan's power rolls outward in a crushing wave, forcing Garrick and his warriors to their knees. The ground trembles beneath our feet, cracks spiderwebbing through the packed earth.
Jonah stiffens beside me.
I step forward without thinking, placing a hand on Ronan's arm.
The contact is electric.
The power recedes—not gone, but restrained.
Every eye snaps to me.
Ronan turns his head slowly, surprise flickering across his face before something darker, more thoughtful settles in.
Garrick gasps, dragging air into his lungs. "You'd let her restrain you?" he sneers. "Pathetic."
The insult hangs in the air.
Ronan smiles.
It's the most terrifying thing I've ever seen.
"She didn't restrain me," he says softly. "She reminded me."
He looks at Garrick with cold amusement. "And you've just reminded me why Ashen Ridge stays on the edge of relevance."
Garrick is escorted out shortly after—humiliated, furious, and very much alive.
The message is unmistakable.
*
That night, Ronan stands on the balcony overlooking his territory, moonlight carving sharp lines across his face.
"You surprised them today," he says without turning.
"I surprised myself," I admit.
He studies me then, really studies me, as if reassessing a variable he thought he understood.
"You're stronger than you think," he says.
The words settle deep in my chest.
Across the bond, Jonah stirs, warm and quiet, a soft pulse of presence that feels like forgiveness slowly taking root.
For the first time since everything shattered, I don't feel like I'm standing on the edge of collapse.
But fault lines don't disappear just because the ground stops shaking.
They wait.
And I know—deep down—that the real breaking point is still ahead.