It took everything in Giselle not to storm into the bedroom and demand they come clean.
Her fingers dug into the porcelain edge of the tub, her knuckles whitening as the water continued to pour, steam rising in lazy curls that fogged the mirror and burned her lungs with heat she barely registered. Her heart was pounding so loudly she was sure they could hear it through the walls. Every instinct screamed at her to act—to confront, to accuse, to tear the truth from their mouths with her bare hands if she had to.
Say something, her wolf urged, pacing violently inside her chest. They planned it. They meant to kill him.
“I know,” Giselle whispered under her breath, her teeth clenched. “I know.”
But charging in now would accomplish nothing. It would expose her hand. Worse, it would warn them
