By the time the last torch in the old hall guttered out, the estate felt like a throat ready to choke on its own secrets. Magnolia stood at the threshold of the ancient apothecary, one hand braced on the splintered frame, the other curled around the ritual knife she'd promised Sterling she'd use tonight. Its cold weight pressed into her palm like an unspoken dare.
Behind her, Beckett paced. He'd been pacing for an hour, boots whispering over the cracked tiles, wolf pacing the bars of its cage. Every now and then he'd stop to glance at her, like he was searching her skin for a crack that might break open if he looked hard enough.
"He'll smell it," he said for the third time. His voice was quieter now, worn down to a ragged edge. "He'll know you're lying."
Magnolia didn't move. "Not if I don't flinch."
"You're betting your soul on that."
