THE COLD WOLF'S MATE
The reflection staring back at me didn’t look like the girl who’d once scrubbed floors and hid her scars from the world.
No, this woman was different. Dressed in white and silver, the gown shimmered like mist over moonlight, hugging the shape of someone who had survived, who had earned her place.
Mira had insisted I wear my hair down, loose waves falling to my shoulders, small silver pins woven through to catch the light.
She’d been buzzing with energy all morning mostly to hide her own nerves, I suspected. When she’d rushed into my room earlier, cheeks flushed and lips still pink from what was clearly a recent kiss, I hadn’t even needed to ask. Milo’s grin from breakfast had told me enough.
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