The music is too loud—not unbearable, but enough to fill the spaces between conversations, between breaths, between thoughts that should be quieter than this. Cassian is laughing somewhere across the room, Mor sprawled across a velvet couch like she owns the place, Rhys speaking near the balcony with that careful ease he wears like armor. And her—

Velastra sits just off-center from it all, one leg crossed over the other, a glass in her hand, wings relaxed behind her as if nothing in this room could possibly demand her attention. She is comfortable. Not guarded, not calculating, not watching every exit like she usually does. Just… existing. It should be a good thing. It is a good thing. And yet my jaw tightens slightly as I watch her longer than I should.

How long is this going to take?

The thought comes quietly, but it is not new. I’ve asked it before—more times than I care to admit. My gaze lingers, searching for something that has never appeared. No shift. No awareness. No pull. Nothing. The bond in my chest hums steadily in contrast, low and constant, as familiar as breath. It has been there for years—not sudden, not violent, just something that settled into place and never moved again. I had thought she would feel it eventually. That one day something in her would change. That I would see it.

But she sits there now, entirely unaware, sipping her drink as though the world has not already decided something for her—as though I have not already known.

I shift slightly against the pillar, arms crossing as I continue to watch. Waiting. Always waiting. She tilts her head at something Mor says, a faint hint of amusement touching her expression—not quite a smile, but close enough that something in my chest tightens. I’ve seen that look before. Earned it, once or twice. Never because of this.

My shadows stir faintly, restless. They know. They have always known. They drift subtly toward her, drawn the way they always are, like they recognize something she does not. Mine. The word surfaces instinctively, and just as quickly I force it down. That is not how this works. Not with her. Velastra does not belong to anything she has not chosen, and I will not be the thing that takes that choice from her—even if the bond already has.

My gaze lingers again, quieter now. Even if it already chose me.

She shifts, setting her glass down, leaning back into the cushions with that same unbothered ease. Completely unaware. A flicker of something unfamiliar moves through me—doubt. What if I imagined it? The thought is quiet, dangerous. What if I have mistaken something else for this?

No.

The bond answers immediately, steady and unyielding.

Real.

My Mate

It has never faltered. Not once.

I exhale slowly, forcing the tension from my shoulders. Then why hasn’t she felt it?

The question lingers longer than I want it to. Years. It has been years, and still—nothing.

Across the room, something earns another small shift in her expression, that same quiet ease untouched by anything beneath the surface. My gaze lingers too long again. It always does. I look away first, as I always do, because that is easier—easier than wondering how much longer I will be the only one who knows. Easier than considering what happens if she never feels it at all.

I push off the pillar, stepping further into shadow where the noise dulls and the room fades just enough to think. The bond hums again, unchanged. Constant. Unlike everything else.

My gaze flicks back to her one last time. She hasn’t moved much. Still relaxed. Still unaware. Still entirely herself in a way that has never needed anything from me—not the bond, not the truth, not the weight of something she hasn’t chosen.

I have waited this long.

I can wait longer.

Even if she never feels it.

The thought settles, quiet and certain.

I will still be here.

I always have been.

And I always will be.