The attack came at dawn, when the world was still gray and unformed.
I was by the hearth, hands wrapped around tea that had gone cold, when Lyra burst through the door. Her face was the color of ash, eyes wide with something between fury and fear.
"They're here." She didn't need to say who. "Armed. At least a dozen." She paused, and I saw her swallow hard. "Led by your stepbrother."
The cup slipped from my fingers. Shattered against stone. Tea spread like blood across the floor.
Dorian.
The baby kicked hard, sensing my terror or simply protesting the sudden spike in my pulse. At eight months pregnant, my body was a weapon turned against itself. I couldn't run. Could barely fight. The binding had given me control over my power, but I'd never fully shifted. Never let the wolf out.
