Mei
The walk from the foyer to the West Wing's sleeping quarters felt like traversing a gauntlet of ghosts. Every shadow on the wall seemed to shimmer with that oily, artificial chill she had felt in the woods, and every creak of the floorboards sounded like Lucian's polished, predatory footsteps.
The silence of Mooncrest Manor, usually heavy and stately, now felt suffocating—a vacuum waiting to be filled by the secrets she was carrying.
Alaric had eventually let her go, though the parting had been fraught with unspoken questions. His amber eyes had burned with a silent, frustrated command for her to rest, yet beneath that command, she had felt his wolf's agitation—a low-frequency hum of suspicion that vibrated through the violet mark on her wrist. He knew she was carrying a weight, but the pride of the High Alpha was currently warring with his exhaustion, and perhaps a part of him was afraid to ask what he wasn't yet ready to hear.
