The tavern's warmth still clung to her like steam off a dying fire, but Esme kept to the shadows of the alley, one hand clenched tight to her cloak as if she could squeeze the regret from her body. The outburst still echoed in her head. She hadn't eaten. Her tab was paid, yet the bitter taste of shame curled on her tongue.
She didn't lash out. No. That wasn't her. It couldn't be. She was composed. Controlled. Calm.
Then why did her voice shake with fury when they mocked Lucien? Why had her wolf surfaced, unbidden, her eyes gleaming too gold, her voice too low?
Her steps faltered as the ache in her chest pulsed again. The poison burned quietly under her skin. Not enough to kill her—yet—but enough to unmoor her. At times she heard things that weren't there. Saw shapes move that didn't exist.
