But the shaking won’t stop. I’m not dreaming. My wolf is coiled tight, teeth bared, her fury vibrating in my chest like the beat of a drum.
“Let’s go over this again,” Eryndor, the Elven leader says, voice cold and steady as he paces in front of us like a wolf circling its prey. His golden eyes lock on Marcus. His symmetrical features, high cheekbones and long, ink-black hair should render him beautiful, but the sneer on his face cuts all that away. His black tunic fits like a second skin, sharp silver cuffs catching the light and gleaming like blades. A silent threat. “When did you first notice Mr. Lovell was petrifying?”
I glance at Marcus.
He looks wrong. His normally smooth composure is fractured. Pale skin beneath his rich undertones. Eyes wide—too wide. Hands still, but clenched too tightly against the arms of the chair. His jaw works, grinding against itself. His hair is a mess from where he’s run his fingers through it again and again, and his tie is loosened. That alone makes my stomach twist.
Marcus never looks undone. Never.
He even wakes up perfect.
So what is this? An act? A well-timed breakdown? Or is this what real shock looks like on him?
I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.
Except that everyone else in that room was petrified.
Everyone except him.
And it was his idea to hold the dinner at the house. His insistence. He poured the wine.
He wanted that night to happen.
“And you, Esmerelda?” That from Thaloran, the tall, antlered figure clad in armor crafted from wood and vines. The stag guardian gives off an air of strength and protection, but I know he is the one they call when brutal punishments are issued. “You entered the room after your father had already begun to petrify. Is that correct?”
I nod, the lump in my throat the size of a boulder. “That’s correct,” I manage to say, but it comes out brittle and sharp between my chattering teeth.
“And what did you do then?”
“And why were you away in the first place?” Eryndor cuts in, his voice clipped and precise.
I turn toward him, blood flashing hot under my skin. “We’ve been over this,” I snap. “I was running late.”
The words have barely left my mouth before Marcus turns toward me with that same infuriating calm.
“Why exactly were you late?” he asks, voice like silk over ice. “Ah, that’s right. You were playing with the dogs right before one of the most important dinners of our lives. Convenient, isn’t it? Were you late because you knew what was going to happen?”
I blink at him in astonishment. “Excuse me?”
Eryndor and Thaloran stand in eerie synchronicity and step out of the room. No words. Just a heavy lock clunking into place behind them. Privacy, but not really. It’s staged. We’re still being watched. Still under scrutiny. Just another layer to this game.
I don’t have time to dwell on it.
I stand and cross to the fire, its glow painting my shaking hands in flickering gold. “Did I hear you correctly? Did you really just accuse me of wiping out my own family?”
“There’s nothing wrong with your hearing,” Marcus replies, slowly and deliberately. “It’s just curious that you weren’t there when everyone else was turned to stone.”
Pain splits through my chest like a hot blade. “Fuck you, Marcus.”
He raises an eyebrow, casual as ever. “Charming deflection.”
“I’m not deflecting a damn thing. How dare you accuse me of this? You, of all people? Once a murderer, always a murderer, right?”
He rises fast, chair legs scraping harshly against stone. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
I whirl to face him, blanket falling to the floor in a heap. “Don’t play dumb. You killed those men in the warehouse explosion.”
His jaw goes rigid. “You’ve got some nerve accusing me of that.”
