The packhouse was too quiet.
Raze had left at dawn without a word. Amelia could still feel the heat of his body in the sheets, but he was gone. Off hunting down answers. Or running from her.
She stood in the dim bedroom, still aching from the fight between them—and the fire that followed it.
She peeled off her tank top, letting it fall to the floor, then turned to the mirror, examining the new scars along her spine. The mark on her collarbone glowed faintly. A brand of power. Of ruin.
A sound behind her.
The door creaked.
“Raze?” she called, turning slightly.
But it wasn’t Raze.
The man leaning in the doorway was taller. Leaner. Shirt unbuttoned just enough to show a hard, scarred chest. His eyes were darker than night, and his lips curled into a smirk that wasn’t kind. It was dang
