Giselle woke with the strange, disorienting feeling of having rested.
It startled her enough that she lay still for a few seconds, blinking at the pale light creeping through the narrow window. The packhouse was waking—she could feel it. The low bustle of life moving through stone and wood echoed all over. Doors opening, footsteps, and voices drifting faintly upward.
Her wolf stretched lazily inside her, a rare thing. We slept, it murmured, pleased. Deeply.
Giselle pressed the heel of her palm against her eyes and let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh. “Guess Chris worked his magic.”
She sat up slowly, expecting the usual heaviness, the weight of dread that often greeted her mornings here. It wasn’t gone—not entirely—but it had loosened its grip. She felt clearer. Sharper.
