Mist’s POV
My cold war with Charles looms like an invisible, wafer-thin ice sheet, freezing the warm and fuzzy air of the pack.
I deliberately avoid any possible time or place where I might encounter him. Most days, I stay in the room reading books (though none of the words actually sink in). Sometimes I accompany Stella in the garden for painting, help Selena organize the herbal room. Even Alex has caught wind of the odd vibes, eyeing me from time to time.
This morning, as soon as I reach the dining room entrance, I smell an ominous scent in the air.
Burnt. Something is definitely burnt.
At the dining table, Charles sits upright in his chair, in front of him a delicate dish covered with a silver lid. He’s wearing a neatly ironed shirt, his hair perfectly in place, but the tips of his
