RYKER’S POV
I stood frozen, the chamber’s heat pressing my skin, the fire spitting embers across the hearth. Elder Nightshade’s words clawed my skull—Selenea alive, with Lukas, fated mates—and my goblet lay spilled, wine pooling red on the rug, the stain spreading like blood. My chest heaved, sweat beading on my brow, and I stumbled back, my hip banging the table, wood groaning under my weight. She was dead. I’d killed her—claws through her chest, her heart pulsing wet against my hand, her body crumpling as I shoved her off that cliff. Her scream had faded, swallowed by the wind, and I’d watched her fall, life snuffed out. How?
My boots scuffed the rug, pacing tight circles, the air thick with smoke and my own sour breath. My hands shook, fingers flexing, still feeling her flesh tear, he
