Freya woke to the smell of mildew and damp stone.

She blinked, her eyelids feeling like sandpaper. The ceiling above her was cracked, low, and stained with water damage. She was lying on a thin, lumpy mattress that offered no support, covered by a scratchy wool blanket that smelled faintly of moth

The packhouse was tearing itself apart.

Down in the damp, freezing dark of the servant quarters, Freya Vance sat perfectly still, listening to the symphony of panic she had orchestrated. The blaring security sirens cut through the stone walls, a shrieking, relentless wail that signaled the absolute

The silence in the grand hall was absolute, save for the low, rhythmic hum of the helicopters outside and the panicked breathing of the Ironcrest pack.

Freya looked up into Kade Blackridge’s silver eyes. She saw the storm brewing in them—the obsessive, devastating devotion that she had kept at arm