K A E L O R
The assassin’s pulse was the quietest threat in Ashmoore.
I heard it from the doorway—thin, uneven, stubborn beneath the healer’s movements and the brazier’s crackle. Each beat loosened something vicious in my chest. Each pause drove my claws deeper into my palms.
Nyxara lay motionless on the infirmary bed, but nothing about her looked peaceful. One hand curled near her hip, reaching for a blade already taken.
Bruises ringed her wrist. Blood marked her mouth where she had bitten through her tongue rather than obey the command buried inside her.
Fragile. Lethal.
A contradiction wearing a human face.
Mate, my wolf pressed.
The word struck bone.
I locked my jaw until the answering growl died behind my teeth. She was not a gift laid at my feet by the Moon. She was an assas
