Nero hadn’t slept all through last night.
The night had pressed down on him like a weight, each hour heavier than the last. Even now, his wolf was restless beneath his skin, pacing, snarling, refusing to settle. Every time he shut his eyes, he saw her...Freya...stumbling into the darkness of the forest, powerless, stripped of the very fire that had once made her untouchable. He saw her face when he cast her out, the brokenness, the humiliation.
But worse than the memory was the thought of her now: cold, alone, vulnerable. Rogues prowled those woods, hunters too. Packs on their borders would not hesitate to take a lone wolf as a slave or a weapon. And Freya—without her dragon fire—was as defenseless as any ordinary lone wolf.
Nero’s hands curled into fists, his jaw tight enough to c***k.
