Isadora:
The hunger comes first.
It gnaws low in my stomach, a hollow ache that sharpens with every step I take across the creaking floorboards of my room. I press my hand to my middle, but the sound—an audible growl—betrays me.
The knock is soft but certain. I know before I open the door who it is.
Rhett stands there, dark and solid, filling the frame like he was carved to block out the world. His eyes flash gold when they find me, and his nostrils flare—wolf instincts catching on my weakness. He doesn’t speak, not at first, just searches my face with that steady intensity of his, until finally his lips curl.
“Your stomach’s louder than my boots, little doe.”
Heat floods my cheeks. I scowl, but it’s weak. “You could have pretended not to hear.”
“Not my style.” He leans one shoulder
