Julian POV
"Do something about that b***h!" Marcella shrieks, her voice piercing the damp air of the backstage corridor.
My head pounds like a piston against my skull.
"Julian, it is her!" Mother cries, her fingers clawing at my jacket sleeve, her nails digging through the fabric. "She is the one who stole the Ancestor's Fang! Do not just stand there!"
I do not look at them.
My eyes are locked on the woman standing three paces away.
Penelope.
She does not look like the quiet, yielding girl I kicked out of my pack house six months ago.
She looks like ice.
Her fingers idly tap the glass dome of the Blue-Claw Pack's most sacred relic, her manicured nail making a sharp click against the crystal surface.
Click. Click. Click.
"Penelope," I say, my voice sounding like gravel grinding i
