The old apothecary stank of ash and old blood by the time Magnolia stepped through its crooked doorway. The air was heavy with the hush of unsaid prayers, thick enough that her wolf bristled under her ribs, restless against the thin ward stitched into her bones. She pressed one palm flat to her stomach, feeling the echo of Beckett's heartbeat brushing against her own through the blood sigil.
Outside, the estate groaned in the dark , beams creaking under the weight of too many secrets stacked on top of rotten foundations. Snow rattled at the cracked windows, a whisper of something pure pressing against the rot that waited inside.
Sterling stood in the center of the circle Celeste had carved all those years ago. He looked almost human in the hush , boots scuffed, shoulders loose, hair damp where melting snow dripped down from the collar of his coat. But his eyes glowed faintly in the candlelight. Wrong. Too deep. Too hungry.
