I study the girl sitting across from me, noting the way moonlight catches in her auburn hair, turning strands to liquid copper. Her nightgown reveals the delicate lines of her collarbone, the gentle curve of her neck where my mark will soon reside. Despite the trauma she's endured, her posture remains straight, her gaze steady, if wary. It's this contradiction that fascinates me: the omega vulnerability wrapped around a core of steel.
Conri paces restlessly in my mind, impatient for the claiming, for the moment when her scent will be permanently altered with notes of our own.
"I have people looking into what happened to your parents," I tell her, watching her face carefully for every reaction. Her composure slips for a moment, hope and fear battling across her delicate features.
"And?"
