The Lycan king’s chambers were too quiet. That silence—the kind that screams louder than words—wrapped around me like a noose. I stood frozen in the doorway, the scent of burning sandalwood and leather thick in the air.

Jordan leaned against the far window, shirt half undone, his broad back to me as he stared out over the forest below. He hadn’t spoken since escorting me from the dinner hall, where Jeanne’s sharp voice had sliced the air like broken glass.

"You should sit," he said without turning. “You’re pale.”

“I’m always pale,” I said, then instantly regretted the bite in my tone.

He turned at that, his gaze cutting through...