The figure that stepped through the door first wore Grayson’s face.

Not the Grayson who had poisoned her and smiled at her funeral. Not the Grayson whose heart she had already taken in one lifetime. This one carried the exact posture of the man who had once lifted her onto his shoulders when she was still small enough to believe an Alpha’s strength existed to protect rather than possess. His eyes were the clear, unmarked gold of the boy who had not yet learned how to lie to the girl who loved him. In his hand he held the silver-handled knife—the same knife that now burned in living Zelda’s grip—except...