Elaine
I listened as Ryne spoke, his voice low and tinged with bitterness, and I felt an uneasy mix of sympathy and wariness. He gave me a half-smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Thanks,” he said. “I was going to use the proceeds to establish a new pack. Imagine my surprise when I called Bastian’s Gallery and found that all but one of my works had been sold… and there was no money in my account. She kept it all.”
My stomach twisted. Even from just the sound of his words, I could feel the depth of his anger and betrayal. The way he described it… it was like every thread of his life—his art, his money, his freedom—had been stripped from him by a single, cruel hand.
“So I came back to town looking for my money,” he continued, his tone hardening, “and she laughed. Said she’d alre
