I thought the ritual’s hold on me might fade after a night’s rest, but if anything, it tightens its grip. I see blood in every flicker of torchlight, recalling the warm rush that bound me to the Alpha and the beast within. Sleep, if it comes at all, is fraught with glimpses of shapes moving in dark corridors, half-formed nightmares that turn violent the moment I stir.
At dawn, I jolt awake to the sound of my own ragged breathing. My hand, still bandaged from the slicing ceremony, throbs in dull pain. My mind swims in the memory of chanting voices, swirling incense, and Damien’s eyes capturing mine at the height of the ritual. A surge of dread and something darker flutters low in my stomach.
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But that is hardly the worst of it. Even before the sun breaks the horizon, flashes of impossib
