Matteo
The fire always started the same way.
The scent of lavender and ash.
The sound of the nursery window creaking open—the one I’d told Enzo to stop leaving unlocked. Then the sudden roar. Heat. Screams. And the sight of his tiny frame crawling beneath the smoke.
“Matteo!”
His voice was always the sharpest part. Not because it was terrified—but because it believed. He believed I’d save him.
I always arrived too late.
In the dream, I crash through the burning door, my wolf thrashing beneath my skin, but the beams collapse before I can get to him. The flames hiss like vipers, and behind them, I see her—Aveline Carrington.
Thirteen years old. Ash on her face. Her eyes wide with horror. She didn’t start it, she said. She didn’t know.
But I didn’t believe her then.
And even if I tr
