Bitch. Witch. Liar. Con job. That was Guinevere's highlight reel until a king called her mate. This man who had just put every wolf in the chamber on their knees.
She looked at him. Recognition punched her in the chest like a bucket of ice water. He was one of the men living in the goddamn brown room bachelor pad she'd woken up in. What the actual fuck was her life.
Nicholas Shadowfell met her eyes and held them with the kind of intensity that felt less like a look and more like an invisible hand pressing down on her.
Her wolf surged.
The rise was immediate, fierce, and completely irrational. It pushed against her ribs with an urgency that bordered on desperation.
She blinked it down.
It came back.
Her wolf didn't say mate. It was confused and pulling towards something with the blind conviction of a compass needle that couldn't find north but refused to stop spinning.
