Seraphine did not sleep.
Every time she closed her eyes, she felt it again the warmth of Lucien’s presence, the quiet honesty in his voice when he’d said he was tired of living forever. It clung to her like a bruise beneath the skin.
She told herself it was weakness.
She’d been trained to cut that out.
Still, when the pull came sharp, insistent, unmistakable she knew exactly whose it was.
The moon was full.
And Lucien’s wolf was restless.
She felt it as a low thrum in her blood, a rhythmic tug that drew her to her feet without permission. The cuffs warmed against her wrists, reacting to the surge in whatever she was becoming.
“Don’t,” she whispered to herself.
Her body moved anyway.
The door to her chamber was open when she reached it.
That alone should have sent her running.
T
