The moon hung like a pale, judging eye over the estate, casting long, skeletal shadows across the stone corridors. Inside the guest wing, the air was thick not with the chill of the night but with a charged, almost suffocating tension that made the very oxygen feel heavy.
Iris stood in the center of the dimly lit room. She had shed her training leathers for something lighter, something that left her feeling exposed despite the dimness.
She stood with her arms crossed tight beneath her chest, a defensive posture that felt increasingly inadequate against the storm brewing outside the door. Her heart hammered against her ribs, not with fear, but with a strange, predatory curiosity that she found both terrifying and exhilarating.
She had heard the whispers. She had seen the way other women looked at Rex, the way Diana, usually so composed and regal, seemed to transform when the doors were closed.
