Varen
The hall smelled of polished oak, crushed berries, and the faint sweetness of perfume drifting off Josie's skin. I could pick it out even among hundreds. Her scent always called to something deep in me—something primal, possessive, irrational. Tonight, it only made me restless.
I stood at the far end of the chamber, my back pressed against a marble pillar as I watched her shift uneasily on her feet. My brothers flanked her—Kiel on her right, Thorne on her left—guiding her toward the altar with hands resting protectively on her shoulders. The sight burned through me like acid. She looked so small between them, her eyes darting around the room like a trapped bird.
Then she stopped. Her voice, soft but steady, broke through the murmurs of the crowd. "Wait," she said, turning slightly to look at me. "Varen—it's not what you think."
