Lorenzo
The corridors of Cold Ridge never slept.
Even in the quiet hours, when the fires burned low and most wolves surrendered to their beds, the walls still hummed with life—guards trading shifts, claws clicking softly on stone, the low growl of voices echoing through the lodge. It was a restless place, always alert, always listening.
Tonight, so was I.
I stood outside her chamber door, my back pressed to the cold wood, the bond pulling taut in my chest like a cord strung too tight. My wolf paced inside me, restless, demanding I cross the threshold and claim what was already mine. But I did not move.
Because I could feel her.
Through the bond, her turmoil spilled into me. The jagged edges of her fury, the sharp pulse of her fear, the quiet tremor of exhaustion that shook through he
