Hope

The garden is warm with late-afternoon sunlight, the kind that turns every leaf into a shard of gold. Camille walks beside me, hands clasped behind his back, humming something old and melodic under his breath. I pretend I don’t notice the way he keeps glancing sideways at me, looking for signs—obedience, affection, maybe even awe. I give him none of those, but I smile anyway because a smile keeps him predictable.

Rhys trails behind us, silent as the stone statues lining the path. His footsteps barely disturb the gravel. A guard, a shadow, an ever-watchful leash. My wolf bristles at him.

Hate him, she growls, low and simmering. He...