My wolf woke me at five.Not with fear — nothing sharp. Something quieter. A pull, directional and insistent, the kind I was beginning to recognise as her telling me something I had not decided to know yet.Go, she said.I got up. Put on yesterday's clothes. Followed the pull down the east corridor, past the library.The study door was ajar. Light inside — low, a lamp or a fire.My wolf went very still. Go, she said again. Quietly. Almost gently.* * *Caelan was at his desk. Not working — papers pushed aside. Sitting with his face in his hands, shirt open at the collar, the way a shirt opened when a man had stopped thinking about what he looked like.So I saw them.The veins.Black, fine as thread, spreading in a branching pattern from the centre of his chest — not like bruising, like something drawn with intention. They crossed his sternum, reached toward his ribs, and one branch climbed the left side of his throat and stopped, for now, at his collarbone.I had heard of the Bloodlin
آخر تحديث : 2026-03-05 اقرأ المزيد