Morning did not arrive gently.
It snapped into existence.
Iva’s eyes flew open as if something inside her had shaken her awake. For a moment she did not know where she was. The ceiling above her was unfamiliar, too high, too white, too smooth. No cracks. No stains. No peeling paint.
Then memory crashed in.
Penthouse.
Lycan prince.
Mate.
Messenger.
Two weeks.
She sat upright so abruptly the room spun.
Her heart pounded once — hard — before she reached for the bedside clock.
6:12 AM.
Her stomach dropped.
“I’m late.”
She pushed the blanket away and stood, wincing at the stiffness in her muscles. The softness of the bed had not meant rest. She had slept in fragments, in tension, in awareness.
She looked down at herself.
Same clothes. Same worn jeans. Same shirt from yesterday.
