Lorenz and I entered the bond as strangers rather than lovers, though I clung to hope that time might draw us closer. During my studies, I worked to stand on my own—earning small grants, selling my paintings to human collectors, and striving not to drain Lorenz’s resources.
But he treated me like an inconvenience, cold and distant, barely acknowledging my efforts. In his eyes, I was a tolerated guest, not a mate.
On our bonding ceremony, he refused even the simplest mark of affection, turning away the instant it was over. The rare nights he came to my den were clouded by drink, and his touch never spoke of care; it reminded me that I existed in his life only by concession.
One evening, he stumbled into my den, eyes glazed, scent tainted by alcohol. I braced myself.
“Toni,” he slurred, leaning against the frame, “why don’t you ever visit me?”
“You never asked,” I replied, trying to steady my voice. “And it’s not as if either of us desired this bond fully.”
He laughed harshly, staggering across the floor and seizing my arm. “You’re only here because of my mother. Without her, you’re nothing.”
“Yes, Lorenz,” I whispered, feeling the weight of his grip tighten around my wrist. “I know.”