Hope

The moment Camille’s grandmother, Lady Elira, told me to call her while we made our way to the dining hall.

She clasps her hand around my wrist, I know something is wrong.

Her grip is deceptively gentle, but the way her claws subtly dig into the soft skin beneath my sleeve is a quiet warning.

A message that says: You play nice now, or you bleed later.

I paste on a pleasant expression, forcing my lips into a smile as she leads me through the grand double doors into the dining hall.

I expect the room to be empty, maybe just Camille waiting for me—but the low hum of...