Elsa’s POV
The warmth of the packhouse seeps through my chilled bones, but the fear and adrenaline still beat like a living thing in my chest, a heartbeat that refuses to slow. My arms ache where I fought, my hands sticky with my own blood, a tangible reminder of the night’s chaos and of what I have done to redeem even a fraction of the damage I caused. Amelia walks beside me, her hand firm around mine, grounding me, steadying me, but her presence is more than that. It is a lifeline, a reminder that despite my arrogance, despite my selfishness, I have done something good, something right.
She releases my hand for a moment, her eyes scanning me, and I catch the faintest hesitation in her glance, the whisper of concern, of empathy. Her lips part, soft, gentle. “Elsa,” she says quietly, “yo
