Killain’s POV
I walk, following the trail of crimson streaks staining my pristine Italian marble floor, the contrast as sharp as the predator lurking within me. It leads me to her.
The little wounded mouse.
She lay at my feet, barely clinging to life, her existence as fragile as the fraying threads of the tattered shawl draped over her bony frame.
Pathetic.
Her hair, wild and unruly, spilled across the floor, and her clothes clung to her like a second skin—worthless, like the life she was struggling to preserve.
I don’t waste my time on women. Not a glance, not a second. But this one? This one wasn’t just any woman.
She was useful.
The Moon Goddess herself had delivered her to me—a broken, insignificant little thing that fit perfectly into my plans. And I, a lion, had found her in my den. How poetic.
At first, I mistook her for one of the desperate maids who dared to slip into my chambers, hoping for more than their station allowed. Perhaps I’d been harsher than necessary. If I tore t
