SERAPHINA
Since my perfume had completely washed off in the rain, I was too panicked to notice a far more jarring truth, Ronan’s body carried no wolf scent.
Not a single trace.
What kind of bloodline did that?
I had never, not once, heard of a werewolf without a scent. A wolf’s scent was everything; part of their identity, their signature. It was the first sign of maturity, blooming in adolescence. Even pups had a developing scent as their wolves grew stronger. But Ronan?
Nothing.
Just the maddeningly clean, masculine scent of rain, earth, and worn leather.
Just…Ronan.
That meant everything he told me was true.
He hadn’t been lying.
What was worse, my wolf felt it too. She stirred in my chest, not in alarm…but in agreement. Silent. Still. As if recognizing something sacred.
That
