ISLA'S POV
"'The sister was just a distraction. The real trap hasn't sprung yet.'"
The words echo in my head as I stand in my destroyed hotel room, staring at the message scrawled across my mirror in what security confirmed is actually red paint, not blood. Somehow that makes it worse—someone took the time to make it look like blood. To maximize the fear.
My clothes are shredded. My laptop smashed. Every surface covered in the same red paint, like someone tried to paint the room in violence.
"Pack your things," Rowan says behind me. "What's left of them. You're moving to the pack house tonight."
"I already told you—"
"That was before someone broke into your room and left a death threat." His voice is steel wrapped in silk. "You're not staying here. End of discussion."
I want to argue. Want to maintain my independence. But looking at the destruction around me, I know he's right. Whoever is after me isn't playing games anymore.
