The mansion did not sleep that night. Every guard was awake, every wolf alert, every shadow watched twice. What happened at the balcony had shaken the pack to its core, but nothing compared to the storm building inside Elena’s chest.
She sat curled on the edge of Dante’s bed, her knees drawn close, her fingers gripping the locket she had worn since she was a child. The room was dim, lit only by the low glow of a lamp across the table. Dante stood near the window, shoulders tense, golden eyes burning into the darkness outside as if daring Lucian to return.
His silence worried her more than his rage.
“Dante,” she whispered. “Talk to me.”
He didn’t move at first. When he finally turned, his expression was a mix of fury and fear, fear she knew wasn’t for himself.
“You shouldn’t have heard
