The heavy winter snow continued to blanket the Whitmore estate, burying the courtyard in a deceptive white peace. Inside the eastern wing, the air was thick with conspiracy. Angelica stood by the frosted window of Lady Valerie’s chambers, a glass of dark northern wine resting untouched in her hand.
"Draven’s mother has practically handed me the key to his bedroom," Angel said, her voice dripping with venomous satisfaction. "But a physical trap isn't enough. Not yet. His wolf is too hyper-vigilant right now. If I step onto that balcony while he’s still entirely consumed by his possessive haze over Aurora, he might actually tear my throat out before his instincts realize I’m offering myself."
Valerie sat at her vanity, sharpening a small silver hunting dagger with a smooth, rhythmic *scrit
