The catacomb floor was damp and unforgiving beneath my knees as I curled into myself, small, trying to disappear. This wasn't ordinary darkness — it had weight, a pressure that pushed against my skin like something alive. My breath came in ragged, shallow pulls as I fought to quiet the pounding in my chest.It was over. The story I'd told myself about Ronan — the noble rebel, the righteous fighter against a corrupt crown — had come apart in my hands, piece by jagged piece.I shut my eyes, but the images wouldn't leave. The war room. The ledger. Rows of mercenary payments, dated months before Bella had even set foot in the palace. Distraction. Fracture. Purge.He hadn't been fighting for the pack. He'd been building its funeral.A sob rose in my throat and I forced it back down, swallowing hard. I couldn't make a sound — not here, not with Ronan and that hooded stranger somewhere above me, hunting through the corridors.My hands flew to my ears, as if I could physically block out his v
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