Elena’s POV

Later that day, the corridor outside the chamber reeked of jasmine — Stella’s scent, cloying and invasive. I didn’t need to see her to know she was waiting.

My wolf bristled immediately, hackles raised, every instinct screaming to tear that sweetness apart.

When the door opened, there she was: silk dress, hair artfully arranged, eyes wet with crocodile tears. Always ready for her performance.

“Elena,” she breathed, as if my name itself was poison on her tongue. ...