Estela’s POV
The knife in my hands trembles, its cold steel biting into my palm. A shiver claws at my spine as I realize I might not have it in me to actually stab someone—and worse, any intruder could easily wrench the blade from my grip and turn it against me.
Should I call the police? I think, my nerves fraying like an old rope. Or Killian? He’s a pain, but if he thought we were in danger, he’d be here faster than any cop. My maternal instincts are screaming, ready to risk everything to protect my pups.
I’m inches from the peephole, still debating whether investigating is the smartest move, when a familiar growl rumbles through the door.
“Estela?” Killian’s slurred voice drifts in, thick with liquor. “I know you’re there. I can feel you.”
Oh, goddess, he’s drunk. Relief floods
