"The King could command silence, but the wolf would roar for every voice that had been broken in the dark."
Early the next day, we moved to the dungeons where Taemin was held. The stench of blood hit me first. It was not just the sharp, copper tang of fresh wounds or the sour staleness of death. No, this was older, thicker, baked into the very stone, a scent that had seeped into the marrow of the castle's foundation itself. It coated my tongue, turned my stomach, clawed down my throat like a living thing.
The dungeon breathed pain, and it is King who had been blind to it. My wolf stirred violently inside me. Vayne did not just stir, he prowled, restless, claws dragging against the fragile walls of my control. His hackles were raised, his teeth bared in the darkness of my chest.
Marcus's hand lifted to cover his nose as he stepped beside me. His Beta composure faltered in the face of what lay here. "Gods," he muttered, voice hoarse. "This reeks of… years."
