Matteo
I stormed out of the chamber, my boots pounding against the stone floor like war drums. I needed air. Space. Something to stop the tightness crawling up my throat like a noose.
She hadn’t said a word after Gideon’s outburst.
She didn’t need to.
The silence in her eyes—quiet, controlled, but trembling with hurt—said everything.
And I hadn’t said a damn thing to defend her.
I clenched my fists, rage bubbling beneath the surface.
Not at Gideon.
Not at the council.
At myself.
Why didn’t you say something? my wolf growled. Why did you let her sit there like a lamb among wolves? Because I couldn’t. Because if I defended her, it would mean I cared. And I don’t. I can’t. She’s a Carrington. The last of the cursed bloodline. She was never supposed to matter. But the guilt lodged in
