The room went deathly quiet. Music cut off, laughter died on everyone’s lips. Conversations froze, falling into hushed whispers as Enrique’s voice cracked through the hall.
“Who did this?”
He didn’t shout again. He didn’t need to. The fury in his tone carried enough weight to make even the bravest wolves stiffen.
Giselle stood there with a tray of wine bottles pressed to her stomach, her fingers numb, her pulse roaring in her ears. The bandage on her face suddenly felt too tight, too obvious. Every instinct screamed at her to disappear.
This wasn’t part of the plan.
“Enrique,” she whispered urgently, stepping closer to him, tugging lightly at his sleeve. “Please—stop. It’s nothing. I’m fine.”
He didn’t even look at her.
His gaze swept the room slowly, with a kind of fire she’d never
