Fiona had been at the palace for three days, and she'd never felt more alone in her life. The rooms Callum had given her—their rooms, he kept saying, though she refused to
think of them that way—were absurdly luxurious. The bed was enormous, the furniture
was antique, and the view of the mountains from the windows was breathtaking.
But it didn't feel like home. It felt like a gilded cage.
Sinead paced restlessly in the back of Fiona's mind, her silver fur bristling with anxiety.
Not ours. Not safe. Too many strangers. Too many threats. The she-wolf's distress
mirrored Fiona's own, a constant low hum of unease that made it impossible to relax.
She spent most of her time in the gardens, hidden behind hedges and rose bushes,
trying to avoid the courtiers who whispered when she passed.
