Sable's POV
The pack house was still asleep when I left my room. The hallway smelled of lemon polish and last night's woodsmoke. My shoes made no sound on the runner rug. I kept my head low, the hood of my gray sweater pulled up. No one needed to see the bruise blooming on my cheek or the red marks on my arm.
I needed Gideon.
He was the only one who would listen without judging. The only one who had never wanted anything from me.
The library was locked at this hour, but I knew the side door by the garden. The key was under the third flowerpot—Gideon's idea of a joke. I slipped inside. The air was cool and filled with the scent of old paper. Moonlight came through the high windows, silver on the shelves.
Gideon was already there. He sat in his wheelchair near the back table, a single lamp glowing. A stack of books waited beside him. His dark hair fell over his eyes as he looked up.
"Sable." His voice was soft, surprised. "You're early."
