EMMA
The air in my tiny London studio apartment felt like a tomb. It was a sharp, claustrophobic contrast to the biting Alpine winds and the vast, pine-scented expanse of the Lune Noire estate.
I sat at my glass desk, the glow of the dual monitors searing my tired eyes. I was supposed to be finalizing the floor plan for the Kensington Winter Gala. Instead, I was staring at the cursor blinking like a taunting heartbeat.
Blink. Blink. Blink.
Every time I closed my eyes, I didn’t see floor plans. I saw fur—midnight black and coarse. I saw eyes the color of toxic moss, burning with a terrifying, ancient intelligence. And I felt that pull—that invisible, agonizing tether in my chest that made me want to scream and run back to France all at once.
"Get it together, Emma," I whispered, my voi
