Aria’s POV
The house was too quiet when I came back. Blackwood quiet. The kind where every sound echoed like it didn’t belong to me. Years ago, I used to shrink inside this silence, tiptoe around it like it could swallow me whole. Tonight, I didn’t.
I hung my coat on the hook, slid off my shoes, and headed straight for the kitchen. The fundraiser dress was gone, folded away upstairs, replaced with jeans and a plain shirt. The smell of onions and detergent clung to me, but I didn’t care.
My hands moved automatically, knife against board, slicing vegetables into even rows. The rhythm was steady, almost calming. My wolf stirred inside me, sharp and amused.
‘You’re still cooking for them, she said. Still playing servant in their house.’
“I’m not cooking for them,” I muttered under my brea
