Kirill was returning to the room in a foul mood. His father was openly pushing that empty-headed Marina on him. The only role that woman was good for was a short-term lover—certainly not a wife.
As he approached the door, he froze.
Marina’s scent lingered unmistakably in the air.
Damn woman. What had she been doing here?
Kirill stepped inside, and an even more unpleasant smell wrapped around him—the bitter scent of Vera’s tears. He hurried to the bed and bent over the girl. She was curled up on the rumpled sheets, tear tracks still visible on her cheeks. She was sleeping soundly.
The werewolf straightened and went to the window. His men were in position, dutifully guarding the area beneath the bedroom windows. Then how had Marina gotten inside his room?
A stupid question. His father
