Rhett
The pack house estate stretched endlessly under the grey December sky; unlike most packs in the west, Decembers in Ravenspire had the worst cold.
It snowed so much that we'd be locked in the house for weeks until the worst of it passes. I stood at the window of my childhood bedroom, staring out at the frozen lake where I used to race across as a child. Back when everything was simple and the only thing that mattered was if I could reach the shore.
My fingers traced the thin diamond bracelet around my wrist—Charis's memorial bracelet, the one I'd had made with her initials engraved in elegant script. E.R. Eamon Riggs. The boy who had never really existed, but whose death had torn a hole in my chest that refused to heal.
She had never really existed either, had she? Charis. My mate. The girl I'd fallen in love with without ever knowing her true name, her real face, her actual voice when it wasn't modulated to sound masculine.
