Colette rambled on, her words spilling out in a frantic rush. Part of it was panic—she was terrified Charles would pin the blame on her. But another part was the pent-up venom she'd held back too long. She despised those pups. The thought that they were Charles's with another she-wolf made her stomach churn, her skin crawl, her mind unravel. She admitted she'd been reckless, but she couldn't stand their existence. Now, with their lives hanging by a thread, a twisted satisfaction curled her lips.
Charles froze, her gleeful smirk searing into him. A chilling realization hit: all these "coincidences" might not point to Isabel. They pointed to Colette.
Five years as Isabel's mate should've taught him who she was at her core—kind, gentle. Maybe it wasn't Isabel lashing out over carrying Colet
