Holly didn’t sleep.
She lay on her side beneath thick blankets, the warmth of the packhouse pressing in around her, and stared at the faint line of moonlight cutting across the ceiling. Every time she closed her eyes, she felt it again—the surge, the heat, the way the world had sharpened until there was nothing but movement and instinct.
Her hands flexed beneath the blankets.
They didn’t feel different.
That was the worst part.
She slipped out of bed quietly, padding across the room until she stood before the small mirror near the wash basin. Candlelight flickered as she struck a match, illuminating her reflection in soft gold.
Same face. Same eyes.
Human.
She lifted her hands, turning them over slowly. There was no blood beneath her nails now, no bruising that shouldn’t have been
