Ravelle.
For some unknown, infuriating reason, she refuses to leave my head. Her face is sharp, vivid, and persistent—and the more time passes, the worse it becomes. It isn’t fading or dulling; if anything, it’s digging deeper, embedding itself into every thought, every breath, every second I try to focus on anything else.
By the time I reach my main house at the heart of the pack, the calm I forced earlier is already beginning to crack.
My wolf shifts restlessly beneath my skin, pacing, agitated—hungry in a way that has nothing to do with food.
It wants her.
No—It needs her.
I head straight to my room, shutting the door behind me with a quiet click that somehow sounds louder than it should, sealing me inside with nothing but my thoughts of her.
And f**k—it does nothing.
Nothing so
