Chapter 11. The Crest Burns

Aria lay frozen, the spectral cold retreating slowly, leaving the room merely frigid and smelling faintly of scorched metal. Her hands were pressed over her ears, a useless gesture to stop the mental echo of the single, possessive word: MINE.

She gasped, pulling in air that felt too thin, too sharp. The lingering scent of ozone and the acrid, burnt-sugar smell of superheated magic were proof that the encounter had not been a hallucination or a fever dream. The bronze eyes had been real. The agonizing cold that paralyzed her wolf had been real. The chain of ownership she had felt—that was the terror of the Blood Court made manifest.

This was no rumor or academy gossip; this was the hunter tagging its prey.

She forced herself to stand, her legs shaking so violently she had to brace herself against the wardrobe. Every nerve ending felt raw, screaming with psychic overload. She needed to focus, to move, to decide where to run.

But before she could take a single s