Camilla stood frozen. Her shoulders trembled just a little.
She was always good at hiding what she felt. She wore a mask for every room. Not today. Today her mask was slipping. Badly.
I could not blame her.
Most wolves only guessed I had died. But Camilla knew. She had seen my body. She had taken the picture of me cold, bruised, motionless. She had proof.
Now she stood before me in a red coat. She looked at me like she had seen a ghost. The calm on her face felt thin.
I was not calm either. Inside, my wolf was a storm. Old memories burned hot. The salt of grief, the iron of rage.
For a month I watched from the edge of life. I floated between two worlds. I saw things no wolf should see. But nothing made my blood boil like Camilla.
The moment she raised her hand against my grandmother when she struck a matriarch that was the day justice slipped. I stopped wanting justice. I wanted revenge. Pure. Sharp. Personal.
