Rowan’s POV
I sat at the kitchen table with a mug of black coffee steaming between my hands, but I did not drink it. My gaze was fixed on the worn wooden surface, yet every one of my senses was trained on the living room. A pack leader’s hearing is not a gift. It is a curse when you are forced to listen to things you would erase from existence if you could.
The heavy oak door stood slightly ajar, but I heard the soft rustle of fabric, Myra’s quiet, professional movements, and my mother’s voice, far too gentle and probing for my liking.
“So twenty years old,” Elenor said. “That is a beautiful age, Caroline. Back then you still believe the whole world belongs to you. Is there someone waiting for you back home? Someone other than your parents?”
My grip tightened on the mug. The porcelain
