HAILEY
The room is quiet.
Too quiet.
I pace once from my bed to the window.
Then back again.
Then immediately regret moving because somehow sitting still feels impossible while moving feels worse.
Claiming Season.
I blame Claiming Season.
It is significantly easier than blaming myself.
The castle outside glows beneath the evening sky while distant lights flicker across Wolfnest and for the hundredth time today, I try convincing myself that everything happening inside my head is temporary.
Just hormones.
Just instincts.
Just terrible timing.
Unfortunately, my brain responds by supplying the image of Eamon holding a bottle of water, towel draped around his neck, naked from waist up, joggers hanging low on his waist.
Traitor.
Absolute traitor.
I groan and throw myself backwar
