Dexmon waited for the rage. For the territorial, possessive fury that should have torn through him at the sight of another man touching the woman who wore Serena's face.
He waited for his wolf to surge, for his fists to clench, for the primal rejection that every mated male carried like a loaded weapon.
It didn't come.
What came instead was an ache so deep it didn't have a name. He could feel Natalia through the matebond, even in a memory, even across ten thousand years, and what he felt was a woman being put back together by hands that knew exactly where she was broken.
Ronan touched Natalia the way Dexmon touched Serena. The same reverence. The same barely contained hunger held on a leash so tight it trembled. The same hands that could break a man's jaw cradling her face like she was the most fragile and most important thing in any world he'd ever stood in.
Dexmon's throat tightened.
