21
ESMERELDA
After leaving the changeling in the playroom to stew for a few more hours, we finally pin down enough scraps of truth to know when the next meet will be. A sting is possible—but only if we plan it right.
The planning eats at us. Hours vanish in a blur of voices and paper. Maps are spread across Belvedere’s table, corners curling in the light from the candles lit for aesthetic. According to Belvedere, just because we’re going to be savage doesn’t mean we have to live that way. Scraps of paper clutter the surface, weighted down with half-empty glasses and knives we keep forgetting we’ve set there. Notes scrawled with signals, routes, contingency plans. Lines crisscross until the map looks more like a web than a plan. It’s like déjà vu.
It feels endless. Argument after argument. Everyone tossing ideas like we can out-strategize chaos itself, like sheer determination will bend the outcome to our will. My wolf paces beneath my skin, restless, snarling every time the conversation circles back on itself.
Eventually, we divide the night into shifts. Someone has to watch the changeling chained in the basement. No one trusts it to be alone, not even for a second.
Its cries follow us up the stairs. Begging. Pleading. The voice of a child one moment, an elder the next. The sound threads through the house, seeping into my bones long after we leave it behind. I tell myself not to hear it, not to feel the way it scrapes at the back of my mind. But it’s there, and it lingers, a reminder that monsters don’t just live outside the walls.
By the time Marcus and I crawl into the bed, every muscle in my body throbs. Min and Leonard have claimed the couches. Belvedere shut himself in his study, and Serafina paces the hallway like a restless ghost keeping vigil. That leaves Marcus and me here, together again, backs turned, silence as heavy as a silver sword hanging over us.
I lie as still as I can. It feels like that’s all I ever do when we share a bed. Pretend stillness, pretend indifference, while every nerve in me sparks like a live wire. The restless energy burns through me, clawing at my insides. My wolf pushes against the thin layer of control, not begging for escape but for release. She wants to run, to fight, to spill blood until all our enemies are taken care of. And I want it too. Revenge has never tasted so sweet.
And then there’s Marcus.
Heat radiates off him in steady waves, sinking into me no matter how far I try to stay on my side. It’s like lying beside volcanic stone, and I can’t stop being aware of him—every shift of muscle, every exhale. His presence is in every molecule.
Even when I close my eyes, I can see him—the slope of his shoulders, all hard lines and strength; the cut of his biceps; the veins that flex when his fists clench; his hands, folded across that infuriating six-pack. I track the rise and fall of his chest with each breath, steady but not steady enough. He’s awake. I know it. Wolves know the difference between sleep and the act of pretending.
Something holds me back from breaking the silence. Maybe he wants the illusion of peace. Maybe he’s busy running strategies, tightening every possible outcome into neat little boxes while I unravel next to him. My wolf prowls inside me, restless, caught between the urge to snap at the quiet and the need to sink into it.
I’m about to roll away, give myself space from the unbearable heat of him, when his voice cuts through the dark.
“I can hear your thoughts as loud as if you’re screaming in my ear.”
I jolt, heat rushing to my face, then force a wry smile as I turn to face him. “Sorry.”
He brushes a strand of hair off my forehead. And much like it was in the limo, the touch is so casual, so deliberate, it steals my breath.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks, voice low and unreadable.
A dozen answers flash through my mind. Petty things, stupid things. Like how that ridiculous tie-dye shirt hadn’t hidden a thing—not the muscles beneath, not the fact he isn’t wearing underwear under those sweats. How his lips feel against mine. My wolf huffs at the thought, edging me on.
He’ll smell a lie if I try to cover it. So, I go with the truth.
“I was thinking of kissing you.”
The words slip out before I can stop them, raw and bare in the dark. My pulse hammers in my throat, loud enough I’m sure he can hear it.
His breath catches. “Oh yeah?”
The rasp in his voice scrapes along my skin. I nod, unable to tear my eyes from his. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while.”
He shifts closer, closing the tiny gap between us. The mattress dips with his weight, and suddenly everything I could feel a moment ago is concentrated. He’s all heat, strength, anddanger wrapped in restraint. Why does that make me want to undo him? His thumb grazes my bottom lip, and the soft, deliberate touch makes my wolf snarl with impatience.
“Tell me, Esmerelda…” His gaze holds me captive. “Have you ever thought about doing more than kissing me?”
The question punches the air from my lungs. My body betrays me, warmth flooding low in my belly even as my mind scrambles to deny the truth. My wolf answers for me, claws scraping under my skin, a hungry growl curling in my chest.
Gods help me, of course I have.
“Yes.” The word scrapes out of me, raw and honest, torn from somewhere deep and primal.
His eyes flare. “Then why haven’t you?”
