The hearth fire in the Alpha’s private quarters didn't crackle; it hissed, consuming the damp birch logs with a low, resentful sputter that mirrored the tension in the room.
Elena sat on the plush velvet ottoman, her hands wrapped around a porcelain mug of chamomile tea that had long since gone stone-cold.
The midnight-blue gown she had worn to the council audits was gone, replaced by a simple, unadorned knit sweater that smelled faintly of the vanilla oil she used to soothe her nerves. She had unbraided the intricate, painful crown Martha had woven into her hair, letting the dark waves fall loose around her shoulders. But the relief was entirely superficial.
The ghost of the high court still felt as though it were sitting on her chest, counting every shallow breath she took.
Across
