Eleanor Pov
The room was quiet.
Too quiet.
I stood by the doorframe of the sitting room now, my palm pressed flat against the cool, polished wood as if it were the only thing keeping me upright. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t think. My entire world, the one I had so carefully manicured over the years, had just crumbled beneath my feet. And the dust was still settling.
Werewolves.
Devon.
It can’t be.
But it is. God help me, it is. And the worst part? Deep down… I already knew.
The signs had been there. The unnatural mood swings. The way his body would twitch in sleep, his mouth curled in a soft snarl. Sometimes, he’d make guttural noises low, barely audible, but enough to wake me up and send a chill down my spine. I used to tell myself it was stress. Bad dreams. Pressure from work. But
