They came in waves.
Not all at once—never so merciful—but in ripples of presence that pressed against the manor like an incoming tide. Wolves first. River felt them before he heard them, their instincts howling in response to something older than hierarchy, older than bloodline. Power called to power. Submission warred with defiance.
Evelyn stood at the center of it all, bare feet planted on fractured marble, shoulders squared though her hands trembled. The gold in her eyes had dimmed to a molten glow, contained but watchful, as if whatever lived inside her was learning the shape of restraint.
River didn't let go of her.
He couldn't.
His arm curved protectively around her waist, his other hand hovering at her back, ready to pull her away—or draw claws—at the slightest provocation. Every instinct screamed that the world had shifted its axis and decided she was now the center.
"You don't have to do this," he murmured near her ear. "We can leave. Right now."
