My bite is healed, but the fang marks remain, pink puckered slashes down my neck. I can’t stop touching them. Preston notices and smiles. I didn’t know he could look smug, but apparently, he can.

It’s been a mostly uneventful week. Preston caught a fat rabbit. Turns out he’s never skinned one before, so that was interesting. I learned that “squeamish” comes through the bond. It’s stronger now, wider and deeper. More nuanced, if that’s the word.

It’s fascinating. And terrifying.

Because strong, arrogant Preston is afraid. It’s not cowardice or worry. It’s a fear before battle. I’ve never felt it before, but now it flows into my chest, spiking...