GABRIEL
The silence in the penthouse of the Lune Noire’s London safehouse wasn't silent at all. To a human, it might have been—the distant hum of the city, the soft tick of a designer watch. But to me, it was a cacophony of failure.
I stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, my claws digging into the palms of my hands until the skin broke. The metallic tang of my own blood hit my tongue, but it did nothing to sate the hunger. My wolf was pacing a frantic, jagged line behind my ribs, snarling at the cage of my chest.
She’s hurting. The bond wasn’t just a connection; it was a physical nerve ending that stretched from my heart across the city to wherever Emma was hiding. And right now, that nerve ending was being seared with a blowtorch. I could feel her fear—a sharp, cold spike of it—and he
