The word Silvercrest hung in the air like a drop of poison.
Aria’s breath hitched. The warm, fluttering feeling in her chest vanished instantly, replaced by a cold, familiar dread. Her hands, which had been resting on the heavy quilt, curled into tight fists. The phantom pain of the broken bond throbbed deep in her ribs—not a pull toward Aiden, but a painful memory of the day she had been thrown away like trash.
Rowan’s head snapped back to her. He saw the color drain from her face, saw the way her shoulders instantly hunched in that defensive, terrified posture she used to wear every day.
A low, dangerous growl rumbled in his chest. He turned back to Jarek, his eyes flashing with lethal intent.
"Put the messenger in the holding cells," Rowan ordered coldly. "I will deal with him later
