JANAYAH

The world didn't just stop; it dissolved.

The cozy timber cabin, the smell of coffee, the lingering warmth of Mace’s skin on mine from the night before—it all vanished. The only thing left in the universe was the man standing in the center of the living room, wearing an expensive coat and a smile that belonged to a executioner.

Alpha Michael.

His scent hit me like a physical blow—a cloying mix of expensive musk masking the deeper, metallic rot of dried blood and cruelty. It was the smell of the cellar. The smell of the whip. The smell of my own fear, cultivated over years until it was the...