DamianIt had been a week since my father’s ridiculous announcement, and though the pack was buzzing with preparations, my mind had been somewhere else entirely—on Alina. Something wasn’t right with her. I noticed it in the way her laughter didn’t quite reach her eyes, in how her hands lingered on chores longer than necessary, and most of all, in the heavy silence that wrapped around her whenever I walked into a room.That silence drove me insane.I found her in the guest chamber, her back turned to me, folding a bedsheet with slow, deliberate movements. The neat corners, the careful smoothing of fabric—she was too focused, too detached, like she wanted the sheet to keep her company instead of me.“Alina,” I said, leaning on the doorframe.She didn’t flinch, didn’t greet me, didn’t even pretend to be surprised that I was there. Just a clipped, “Damian,” before she returned to her folding.I stepped forward, narrowing my eyes. “What are you doing?”“Folding,” she replied plainly, as if
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