Sleep didn’t come easy. I drifted in and out, caught between the ache in my body and the tangle in my head. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Ragnar’s scarred face, heard Killian’s warning, felt Lucian’s hands on me—steady, warm, too real. By the time the first light crept through the window, I gave up, rolling out of bed with a groan. My muscles screamed in protest, but I ignored them, splashing cold water on my face from the basin in the corner. The mirror showed a mess—bruises darkening my arm, a scab forming on my lip—but I looked alive. That was something.
Downstairs, the hall was already buzzing. Pack members milled around, voices low but urgent, piecing together what had happened in the night. I caught snippets— Bloodfangs, ambush, Ragnar’s death —and felt their eyes on me as I pa
