The rotting carcass of the Blackwood Pack did not sleep. It held its breath in the freezing, mud-slick dark.
Clara moved like a shadow through the corridors of the estate, her heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against her ribs. She was wrapped in a simple, dark wool cloak—leaving behind the luxurious furs she had once covetously stolen from Ariah's wardrobe. In her arms, wrapped tightly against her chest in a thick sling, was little Leo. The toddler was blessedly asleep, drugged with a tiny drop of poppy-syrup she had begged from the pack apothecary under the guise of soothing his teething.
Every floorboard she trod upon felt like a trap waiting to spring. The grand manor was no longer a home; it was a tomb. The air was thick with the scent of sour whiskey, stale grease, and the
