That’s what mates do, Rose.

Rose’s POV

The wards hummed softly against the stone walls, a low, protective thrum that felt almost like a second heartbeat now—steady, unyielding, sealing the world out so completely that even the distant clang of the academy bell tower sounded muffled, like something happening to other people in another life. The fire had burned low, reduced to glowing embers that painted the heavy oak desk in shifting shades of amber and shadow, the scattered papers on the floor catching faint glints of light like fallen stars.

The room smelled of us—pine smoke and cold iron woven so tightly with wild rose and warm honey that it no longer felt like two separate scents. It felt like one. Irrevocable. The changed signature rolled off both of us in waves, deeper now, layered with the unmistakable copper-thread of the fresh claiming bite and the lingering warmth of everything we had just shared. No blocker in the world could hide it anymore. Not from alphas like Marcus. Not from betas with sharp noses in the dining hall. Not from the board if they chose to look.

I was still trembling.

Not from the aftershocks anymore, though those still lingered in faint, delicious ripples low in my belly, echoes of the way his knot had held me so perfectly full. This was something quieter. Deeper. The kind of tremble that comes when the storm has passed and you realize the ground beneath you has shifted forever, the ancient stones of the academy no longer feeling quite so solid under your feet.

Jason’s forehead rested against mine. His breathing had evened out, deep and measured, the way it did when he was thinking three moves ahead in a council debate or grading a particularly thorny Lore paper on consent rites. One of his hands remained splayed at the small of my back, palm warm through the rumpled fabric of my blouse. Not gripping. Not claiming with alpha force. Just… holding. Grounding. Steady as the northern passes he had once defended. The claiming bite on my throat pulsed gently now, a living echo rather than a frantic demand, sending little threads of warmth down my spine every time his thumb brushed the edge of my jaw in slow, absent circles.

The bond felt *full*.

Not frantic like it had been all day while I whispered *stay away* into empty corridors and fought the golden tug with every step. Not stretched thin and aching like cold sheets at dawn. Full. Like a golden circle finally closed, warm and humming and undeniably *right*. My wolf had stopped pacing inside me hours ago. She lay curled now, russet fur brushing against the massive silver shadow of his, tail draped lazily over his flank in quiet trust. *See?* she rumbled softly, voice a contented vibration in my chest. *He plans. We plan. No more running alone.*

For a long moment, neither of us spoke.

I listened to the fire pop once, softly, a single ember flaring bright before settling back into ash. Felt the faint draft from the tall arched window stir the loose strands of my hair against my cheek, carrying the distant scent of night-blooming nightshade from the training fields below. Smelled the faint trace of ink and aged parchment beneath everything else—his precise script on the documents still scattered across the desk like battle plans. And beneath *that*—unmistakable now—was the changed scent rolling off both of us. Deeper. Layered. Permanent. The kind of signature that no amount of industrial-grade blockers could ever fully erase. It clung to my skin, my uniform, the air itself. Rose and pine and iron. Sovereign. Claimed.

“They’re going to notice,” I whispered at last. My voice came out hoarse, raw from everything I had screamed earlier in surrender and release, but steady. Not small. Not broken like it had been in the lecture hall that afternoon. Just… honest. “The scent is stronger now. Marcus already mouthed ‘changed scent’ at dinner. That beta girl in Shifting Theory asked if I’d finally ditched the suppressants. She said I smelled ‘different. Sweeter.’ Like I’d found someone worth the risk. If whispers reach the board before your documents are sealed—”

Jason didn’t pull away. He simply tilted his head, silver eyes meeting mine in the low light. There was no panic in them. No regret flickering at the edges. Only that quiet, unshakeable calculation I had seen so many times in lecture halls when he dismantled flawed arguments with three precise sentences and a single raised brow.

“They already have,” he replied calmly, the words landing like stones dropped into still water—solid, immovable, something we could build around rather than drown in. “Marcus lingered outside the dining hall too long tonight, nostrils flaring every time you passed the alpha tables. I felt it through the bond—the way his wolf tested the air, searching for weakness. Hargrove asked me an unnecessary question about your Lore attendance this afternoon in the faculty lounge—casual on the surface, but his eyes were too sharp, too knowing. The air is shifting, Rose. Students whispering in clusters by the library arches. Betas comparing notes in the corridors. The scent blockers are failing faster than Lila’s strongest vial can keep up.”

My chest constricted, a fresh spike of fear trying to claw its way back in. But it didn’t feel hollow anymore. It had structure now. Shape. Something we could brace against, shoulder to shoulder.

“You said *together*,” I reminded him softly, my fingers tightening in the open collar of his shirt, tracing the old scar on his collarbone without thinking—the faint ridge from some long-ago border skirmish that had taught him how to fight when the odds screamed impossible.

“I meant it.” The bond pulsed warmer in agreement, carrying a flash of his wolf—massive silver form standing guard at the edge of my mind, not snarling or lunging, just *waiting*, ears pricked, ready for whatever came next. My own russet wolf pressed closer inside me, tail brushing against that silver shadow in a tentative, hopeful nuzzle. *See?* she seemed to rumble again, voice warm and certain. *He sees the storm. We face it. No more hiding.*

Jason leaned back just enough to reach for the leather folder still resting on the corner of the desk. Papers crinkled as he opened it, the sound crisp and deliberate in the quiet room, like the turning of a new page in an ancient tome. He held it between us—not forcing me to look, just offering it like a shared shield. His neat, precise script filled the top sheet: consent forms dated to the exact second the bond had snapped into place last night, witnessed by his wolf’s memory and sealed with a single drop of his blood that had dried to a faint rust-colored sigil in the corner. Statements from Councilor Elara and Dean Hargrove—favors called in quietly over the past months, phrased in the careful, ironclad language of old alliances forged in border passes and reform chambers. Precedent citations from sovereign bonds three centuries older than the academy charter itself, yellowed parchment edges visible in the copies he had included.

“I finished the first drafts while you were walking here,” he said quietly, his free hand still resting at my back, thumb tracing slow, soothing circles that grounded me more than any words could. “Every word you sent through the bond—every ‘stay away,’ every tear you tried to hide in the corridor, every hesitant step past the training fields—only made me more certain. You were trying to shield me the same way I’m trying to shield you. That’s what mates do, Rose. But we don’t do it by disappearing into shadows or cold sheets at dawn. We do it side by side, with every document, every ally, every precedent we can wield like the weapons they are.”

I took the folder with fingers that no longer shook quite so badly. The parchment was still warm from his hands, the ink faintly smudged in one corner where his thumb had rested while he wrote. I scanned the lines, the careful framing of our night as mutual, informed, adult choice—two souls finding each other against every odd the academy had ever carved into its thousand-year-old stones. My throat tightened, but not with guilt this time. With something sharper. Fiercer. Pride, maybe. Or the first fragile threads of belief.

“You did all this… while I was whispering ‘leave me alone’ the whole way across campus?” I asked, voice cracking just a little on the last word. “While I was applying another layer of Lila’s blockers in the mirror and telling my reflection I wouldn’t come?”