Janelle
The feeling started three days after the feast. A prickle at the back of my neck. The sensation of being watched made my skin crawl and my wolf stir restlessly beneath the surface.
I'd turn around expecting to catch someone staring, but there was never anyone there, just empty corridors or servants going about their business with carefully averted eyes.
But the shadows moved wrong. Too quickly. Too deliberately.
I tried to tell myself I was being paranoid, that the stress of watching Adrian dance with Princess Sophia had finally broken something in my mind. But my wolf knew better. She prowled beneath my skin, hackles raised, sensing danger I couldn't yet see.
"You're jumpy as a rabbit in a fox den," Clara observed on Thursday morning as we folded linens in the servants' laundry room. The air was thick with steam and the scent of lye soap, but even here, surrounded by chattering maids, I felt exposed.
