Silver doesn’t just burn werewolf flesh; it cooks it from the inside out. It smells like battery acid and charred bone, a sharp, chemical stench that coats the back of the throat and refuses to wash away.
Jane stood in the center of the shattered penthouse. She didn't gag at the smell. She didn't panic at the sight of the dead Council assassin bleeding out over the imported Persian rug. Her dissociation—the thick, numb blanket she had used to survive her entire life—was gone. In its place was a terrifying, crystal-clear hyper-awareness.
She could hear the erratic, terrified heartbeats of the three submitted guards lying facedown on the glass floor. She could smell the sour, metallic tang of their fear. Most importantly, she could hear the heavy, labored drag of Michael’s breathing.
He w
