The forest exhaled mist, curling around Zelda’s bare ankles like a lover’s breath. She moved silently, cloaked in Morgana’s spell, her crimson gown now a tattered shadow against the pines. The vial of nightshade and moonbloom hung heavy between her breasts, tucked into a leather cord she’d knotted herself. The pack’s howls still echoed from the clearing where Grayson lay paralyzed, his body a twitching monument to her first strike. Delilah’s frantic cries for the healers had been music—sharp, desperate, delicious.

Zelda’s lips curved. Let them scramble.

She crouched low, senses razor-sharp despite the absence of her wolf’s full strength. Little Zelda—her wolf—had been silent since the rebirth, stirring only...