LUKAS’S POV
Sweat clung to my shirt as I jogged down the stairs, my boots thudding on the wood, my phone in hand, its screen dark, the castle’s air cool, torchlight flickering on the stone walls. Selenea’s voice had been sharp, her words about Ryker’s spies—Freya’s ritual, Nightshade’s schemes—cutting deep, my curse a weight, my love for her a fire I’d guard, her strength my anchor. I’d left her in the study to grab my phone, my steps quick, my heart racing, her eyes—green, fierce—burning in my mind, our plan to strike Callista, to end Ryker, a vow we’d keep, Freya’s threat a storm we’d face, my wolf’s bane vial hidden, my secret a burden I’d carry, her safety my fight.
I paused, my boots scuffing the rug, my hand on the banister, wood smooth, Selenea’s stance rigid, her leathers creakin
