Her laugh reached me first—sweet, syrupy, laced with poison. Then his voice, low and indulgent, like this place no longer belonged to me at all.
Camille floated into the kitchen wearing one of Thorne’s shirts, buttons undone, hair loose and tangled from sleep that smelled of skin and conquest. Thorne followed close behind, freshly showered, carrying the sharp scent of soap and betrayal. Side by side, they looked newly wed—glowing, satisfied, hungry.
“Coffee,” she said lightly, already settling into command. “His strong. Mine with cream. You remember how he likes it.”
I set the mugs down silently.
Thorne took a sip and smirked, eyes never lifting to acknowledge me. “Make bacon and omelets. Camille likes them the way I do. And don’t oversalt like you used to.” His mouth curled. “She actually takes care of herself.”
Camille leaned back against my counter as though it were hers, triumph shining in her eyes. “Some people prefer not to look like brittle twigs wrapped in misery, sweetheart.”
I smiled then—not out of submission, but because showing teeth was the oldest truth wolves knew. They missed it. They always had.