DROGO
“How long is it going to take her?” I ask Bran.
“A week,” he says.
I shoot a sharp glance over my shoulder, tone cold. “You mean I’ll have to wait a week before I know why the f**k she looks so much like her?”
“We don’t have a choice. Maybe not technical, but there’s a reason.”
“Reason?” I raise a brow. “The only reason I haven’t ripped her throat out is because Morgan isn’t here to explain.”
I've heard tales about reincarnation. Heard the moon could pull that stunt to comfort grieving mates.
Bullshit.
The dead stay dead. Once the Moon Goddess takes you, it’s final.
So explain this: two centuries ago I watched her die. And last year, a photograph at the Grand Festival gave me a face that will not stop haunting me.
Red hair. Round face. Pointed nose. Full mouth. Those hazel
