Peter was completely passed out on the floral couch in Madame Lucy’s living room, one leg dangling over the armrest, snoring softly. The faint scent of chamomile tea and old wood filled the room, while moonlight spilled through the window, casting pale silver shadows across the floor.
Nathan lay stretched out in front of the fireplace, his massive wolf body curled protectively between Rory and the front door. His fur glistened in the firelight, the once-fresh blood now cleaned away, though faint signs of the night’s brutal fight remained. His bright blue eyes stayed open, watching Rory.
Rory felt it—the weight of his stare, heavy but warm.
She sat cross-legged on the floor, picking at the edge of a worn rug, then glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “Are you just going to keep sta
