Gwyn did not sleep.
She tried.
She went to her room because Ronan had looked at her with that quiet Beta stare that meant he would physically drag her there if she argued. She washed blood from her hands. Changed out of torn clothing. Sat on the edge of her bed until the candle burned low.
Then she lay down.
And listened to the packhouse breathe.
The ache under her ribs had settled into a steady throb.
Not sharp enough to be injury.
Not dull enough to ignore.
It pulsed with her heartbeat, low and insistent, like something inside her had awakened and found the room too small.
Gwyn rolled onto her side.
The ache followed.
She rolled onto her back.
It deepened.
Her wolf lifted its head beneath her skin.
Not pacing.
Not snarling.
Waiting.
That was worse.
“Stop,” Gwyn whispere
