Chapter 9. The Girl Who Knew Too Much

Harper Quinn didn’t sleep.

Sleep was a reward for people with illusions of safety, of certainty, of comfort. She had none left. Not after what she’d read. Not after the face that refused to disappear from her screen, no matter how many times she blinked.

Arthur Devereaux. Alive. Documented. Protected.

And Knox—the man who had pulled her into this world, who’d offered a collar instead of a crown—had never broken from his father. He was still tethered. Still orbiting that name like a star pretending it wasn’t a satellite.

Harper sat by the window, dossier spread open in her lap, the blue glow from her burner laptop painting ghost-light across her face. Outside, the courtyard was empty, but she watched it anyway, eyes sharp, still, unblinking. Not because she expected anyone. But because she didn’t trust who might show up.

The truth thudded in her chest like a metronome: Knox had never been the wolf.

He was the heir.

And she had mistaken proxim