IRIS
The dagger feels awkward in my hand now. What once seemed like the perfect gift suddenly feels… fragile. Like it might shatter under the weight of this moment.
Darian stands across the room, surrounded by a group of Lycans in dark, tailored suits, laughing and drinking like royalty that they are. He fits right in, tall and poised, dark eyes sweeping the room as if every inch belongs to him. Which it does. Or will.
I take a breath and walk toward him.
He sees me before I even speak, and his smile, if it ever existed, vanishes the moment I stop in front of him.
“Happy birthday,” I say quietly, forcing the corners of my lips to lift. I hold the dagger out, wrapped in black velvet, the steel hilt peeking out just enough to catch the light.
He looks at it. Then looks at me. His face
