Rosalia
Okay, universe, you win. I’m officially out of snarky comebacks. I’m standing in a forest clearing, silver antidote barely keeping me upright, with a monster straight out of a horror flick eyeing me like I’m dinner. Angelo’s bleeding out, Camila’s gone full traitor, Enzo’s playing puppet master, and now a silver wolf claiming to be my dead father is telling me to run.
Either I’m hallucinating, or my life’s been hijacked by a soap opera writer with a grudge. Spoiler: I’m not running. Not yet.
The silver wolf’s eyes lock on mine, and my heart does a backflip. That scent, cedar and musk, is so painfully familiar I want to cry. But trust? After Camila’s knife-in-the-back routine? Nope. My best friend just tried to drug Angelo, and I’m not falling for another “I’m here to help” act,
