[Killian]
I don't turn on the lights.
The penthouse swallows me in darkness, the city's glow bleeding through floor-to-ceiling windows like a wound that won't close. I stand at the glass, whiskey in hand, not drinking. Just holding it. The weight feels necessary somehow—something solid when everything else is shifting beneath my feet.
My wolf is losing its mind.
Not rage. I know rage. This is something else—a keening, a clawing desperation that scrapes against my ribs like it's trying to tear its way out. It doesn't make sense. That thing in her belly was nothing. A cluster of cells. A problem. And now the problem is solved.
So why does my chest feel like someone's hollowed it out with a rusted spoon?
Stop it.
I close my eyes, force the wolf down. Layer by layer. The way I've always
