Emelda

Snowy darkness stretches ahead of me. Whatever light from the moon is blocked by thick clouds that spread snow across the hills leading from the castle to Ravenfell. I pull my cloak tight to fight the bitter chill in the air and breathe in the fresh, crisp night. It smells clean. I love that smell. I love when it snows. I always have.

But tonight, I’m not tucked in bed with the fire roaring while I read a book. I’m not in my kitchen mixing herbs or baking for Michael’s insatiable shifter appetite. I’m not settled near the window mending a seam in his favorite jacket while watching the...