“Let me go, please…”
“Quiet.” Devon yanked Arwen’s wrist even harder. “Elara doesn’t like noise.”
“You’re hurting me, Beta…”
“Don’t care.”
Witcher Elara’s house stood alone in the middle of an herb garden, not far from the center of the Nightshade Pack.
Small lanterns hung beneath the roof—dim, yet enough to cast strange shifting shadows behind the curtains.
The moment Devon pushed the door open, the scent of lavender and something unfamiliar—like the first rainfall on dry soil—hit Arwen’s nose.
Her body lurched forward, nearly falling.
“That’s enough, Devon.”
The woman’s voice was soft, but carried a power that made Devon’s legs lock instantly.
Elara stood near the fireplace, her silver-white hair flowing freely, her pale blue eyes gleaming like frozen light. She looked at Arwen
