The echo of her giggles faded, replaced by the heavy silence of the packhouse. Downstairs, I overheard him instruct the housekeeper, “Prepare something rich in iron tonight. The ones Madam used to like.”
Madam.
I wasn’t sure whether he meant me or her. The word had lost all meaning.
When I opened the guest room door, my breath caught.
My suitcase had been ransacked, clothes torn, and my journals ripped to shreds. Some of the pages were wet with something red, not blood, but something else. Perfume. It was Freya’s scent.
She’d marked my belongings like a wolf marking her territory.
I gathered what I could, placing the last of my documents inside the safe deposit box. My wolf stirred in my chest, restless, but too weak to rise.
Not yet.
As I zipped up my coat, the door creaked open. Freya leaned against the frame, her arms folded, her pregnant belly prominent under a sheer silk robe.
“Well, well,” she smirked. “Still pretending to be calm, even though I’ve pissed all over your place in this pack. Honestly, Rayven, you’re impressive.”
I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my skin.
She giggled.