The sound of shattering glass ripped me from the darkness.
I blinked, my eyes adjusting to a room I didn't recognize. The air was cold, smelling of dust and old wood. Above me, a canopy of pale blue fabric patterned with swans draped over the bed.
I sat up, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. This wasn't Liam’s apartment. This wasn't the Pack House.
I looked around. A wooden rocking horse stood in the corner, its painted eye gleaming maliciously in the moonlight. Vintage blocks were scattered across a faded Persian rug. Drawings—crude, angry scribbles in crayon—were taped to the pale blue walls.
It was a nursery. But it felt wrong. It felt... dead.
A door slammed somewhere in the house, the sound echoing like a gunshot. Heavy footsteps thudded on floorboards, accompan
