Chapter 144

Chapter 144:

I leaned against the wall, letting the darkness cloak half my face. My eyes traced the curve of her neck, remembering the pulse I had felt there. The urge to claim her, to mark her and erase every trace of the Hydes, was a physical ache in my chest.

“Across the hall,” I murmured, my voice dropping to a rough whisper that was more beast than man.

I watched her pupils dilate. The air between us crackled, thick with a tension that could snap a lesser man’s resolve.

“In case you need…” I paused, letting my gaze drag slowly down her body and back up to her eyes, “anything p>

Adella’s breath hitched. She stared at me a heartbeat longer, her cheeks flushing deep crimson, before she turned and practically fled into her room, the door closing behind her with a soft click.

I stood in the dark hallway, listening to the frantic rhythm of her heart through the wood.

Soon, Ragnar promised from the silence of my mind. Soon.

I turned and walked into my own room, the beast inside me clawing for release — knowing full well that sleep, tonight, would be a mercy I wouldn’t find.

𝘚hа𝗋𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝗿 𝘵𝗵𝗈𝘶g𝘩𝗍𝘴 о𝗻

I closed the door and leaned back against the solid wood as my heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs. The lock clicked with a finality that should have frightened me, yet as I turned to face the room Dallas had prepared, the fear in my throat dissolved into stunned silence.

It wasn’t a guest room. It was a sanctuary.

The walls were painted a soft, luminous white that seemed to catch the moonlight pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Beyond the glass, the Black Lake stretched out like a sheet of polished obsidian, calm and endless. But it wasn’t the view that stole the breath from my lungs. It was the details.

In the corner, bathed in the silver glow of the moon, stood a professional-grade easel made of dark mahogany. Beside it, a rolling cart was stocked with paints — oils, acrylics, brands I had only ever coveted in art supply catalogs but could never afford. Brushes of every size waited with untouched bristles, and a stack of pristine canvases sat ready for a hand to bring them to life.

I walked further into the room, my fingers trailing over the spine of a book resting on the nightstand. The Restoration of Renaissance Pigments. A rare edition — an out-of-print volume I had mentioned wanting once, years ago, to a librarian in the city.

How?

My gaze drifted to the small glass jar flickering on the bedside table. I lifted the candle and inhaled the scent, and my knees nearly buckled.

Moonflower.

A rare, delicate fragrance — one that bloomed only at night. It was the scent I had always imagined my soul would carry if I had a wolf. It was the scent of safety.