Aurelia.
The name did not arrive like memory.
It moved through Zinnia with the certainty of something that had always belonged to her, buried too deeply to reach but never truly lost. The silver light beneath her skin faded into the cold, leaving her palms pressed against churned snow while the forest remained unnaturally still around her.
Ronan knelt several paces away in human form, blood streaking his throat and shoulder where the corrupted Lycan had seized him. Steam rose from his skin in the winter air. His black wolf lingered close beneath the surface, visible in the silver consuming his eyes and the tension straining every muscle in his body.
He did not approach her.
That restraint mattered more than Zinnia wanted it to.
“Aurelia,” she whispered.
The name seemed to echo throu
