Those violet eyes, however, were not clouded by malice or ancient, lingering threats; they were wide, intensely curious, and brilliantly bright.
It was Willow.
Shuffling nervously near the frame of the door, her thick, dark, cascading curls framed a soft countenance etched with hesitation. Clutching a small, fragile bouquet of snowdrops—the only defiant bloom capable of piercing the winter frost—she hovered on the threshold, clearly warring with herself over whether she was permitted to step onto the sacred, blood-marked territory of a Luna's bedchamber.
Loitering directly behind her was Baron, the tallest and most heavily built of her brothers. His sun-bronzed skin was dusted with a faint trail of freckles across the bridge of his nose, and his narrow, calculating eyes keenly swept the interior of the crowded room. Even above the chatter of the omegas, their quiet, sibling whispers filtered directly into my heightened senses.
