Chapter 3

Eleanor Kensington POV:

The rhythm of the approaching footsteps was rushed, accompanied by the distinct clanking of steel scabbards hitting plate armor.

There were at least a dozen men, led by someone who wanted everyone in the corridor to hear their arrival.

Even with the bed remade, the air in the chamber remained heavy with the sweet, sickening smell of crushed heather and male musk.

Any elder with a functioning wolf would smell the heat the second they crossed the threshold.

"The air is too thick," I muttered, my fingernails digging into my palms.

I didn't wait for Victor to answer.

I rushed toward the three arched floor-to-ceiling windows facing the northern precipice.

I grabbed the heavy crimson velvet drapes and ripped them aside, letting the pale morning light flood the room.

I lifted the heavy brass latches and shoved all three wooden frames outward with everything I had.

A freezing gale from the northern peaks howled into the room like an unleashed beast.

Freezing mountain air, sharp with pine needles and frost, tore through the bedchamber.

The wind scattered the loose parchment on the desk and sent the curtains snapping violently against the stone walls.

The biting frost swept through every corner, stripping the warm, heavy scent of rut from the stone walls and carrying it out into the empty sky.

I stood directly in the draft, the silk robe whipping around my legs, the bitter cold numbing my feverish skin and clearing the last traces of the drug from my mind.

Victor remained near the hearth, his heavy black officer's cloak fluttering in the freezing draft.

He watched me with an intensity that felt heavier than the mountain wind.

"Freezing out the scent," he remarked, tilting his head slightly. "Smart. But reckless."

"Kindness to snakes only guarantees a bite," I replied, pulling my dark woolen traveling cloak from the hook by the window and fastening the bronze clasp at my throat.

Right outside, the boots came to an abrupt halt.

The sharp, nasal voice of my mother-in-law, Beatrice Beaumont, leaked through the thick oak panels.

"Surround the doors! Captain, make sure every archway is blocked! Don't let a single rat slip through!"

Then came Tristan's voice, thick with fake concern and poorly hidden greed.

"Mother, if we truly find them... how do we handle the Regent's guard?"

"You fool!" Beatrice hissed. "This is our leverage! Once we catch them in the act, the Regent will have no choice but to sign your Alpha succession decree to bury the scandal, and that merchant bitch will hand over every coin she owns just to avoid the gallows!"

Victor glanced sideways at the tightly closed door, a barely perceptible smile touching the corners of his mouth; a look of playful amusement flickered in his eyes, as if to say, "Alright, now let's see you perform."

I couldn't help but frown, wondering how he would conceal his presence, He nodded at me, and with a look of surprise on my face, he reached for the edge of the open window and, in an incredible pose and with incredible strength, clung to the outside wall.

I leaned out of the window to look at him, and he released his grip, leaped lightly onto the wall, and then jumped through the window of the next room.

The wind and snow continued to blow into the room.Standing by the window, I let out a low, silent breath.

Every word they spoke was identical to what they had whispered outside my door in my past life.

I stepped away from the window, sat down gracefully on the velvet settee near the dying fire, and picked up a cup of cold, bitter tea from yesterday's tray.

"Break it down!" Beatrice's screech pierced the wood. "Shatter the lock!"

A thunderous crash echoed through the chamber as an iron-tipped battering ram slammed into the center of the double doors.

The heavy iron hinges groaned, then snapped with a violent crack.

The heavy oak doors burst inward, slamming against the stone walls.

Tristan charged into the room first, his hand gripping the pommel of his broadsword, his face twisted in triumphant frenzy.

Right behind him was Beatrice, adorned in her dark mourning velvet and an obsidian headpiece, flanked by four senior pack elders and eight armored castle guards holding drawn blades and burning torches.

"Halt right there, you treacherous—" Tristan's roar died instantly in his throat.

The sight that met their eyes was not a den of shameful indulgence.

There were no tangled sheets, no discarded dresses, and no naked bodies scrambling for cover.

There was only the howling gale blowing through three wide-open windows, an immaculate bed covered in plain wool, and me, sitting quietly by the hearth with a teacup balanced in my fingers.

Tristan's frantic gaze darted across the empty room, his eyes bulging as he searched the corners for a hidden lover.

Beatrice's triumphant sneer froze solid, her jaw dropping open in utter disbelief.