Ashmoor Unseen Wolf
The scent of books wrapped around us like a blanket, spines of every color stacked high in chaotic reverence.
For a few minutes, everything was easy. We browsed shelves, pointed out ridiculous book titles, and laughed quietly under the whispers of other readers.
Diana stopped by a shelf labeled “Lost Worlds” and picked up a hardcover reverently.
“This place is... peaceful,” she whispered, fingers brushing the page like it might burn.
“Yeah,” I said, watching her, not the books. “It is.”
Then the air shifted.
A shadow fell across her. Then hands.
Rough, calloused hands grabbed her arm.
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