(Catherine POV)
I wore a path in the Persian rug, my bare feet moving in restless circuits that took me from fireplace to window to door and back again. Sleep was impossible after what I'd seen—those claw-marked doors, the wolf that had materialized from shadows like something out of nightmare, Lord MacAllister's face when he'd found me trespassing in his private hell.
The memory of his grip on my arm burned like a brand. Not painful, exactly, but intense enough that I could still feel the imprint of his fingers hours later. The way he'd looked at me in that corridor—fury and something else I didn't want to name warring in those golden eyes.
Golden eyes. Like the wolf's. Like the creature that had watched me from the forest edge with predatory patience.
Coincidence, I told myself, thou
