ENZO
THE RUT HAD its teeth in me.
It wasn’t just heat under my skin anymore—it was fire, burning at my insides, leaving me pacing like a rabid dog with no chain. I’d gone two nights without sleep, drenched in sweat, fists bruised from slamming walls just to keep from losing it. The men gave me space. They knew better. But space didn’t cure it. Nothing did.
By the time I called Amelia upstairs, I was already halfway gone.
She came fast, eager, like she’d been waiting for the invitation. Maybe she had. Her smile was practiced sweet, her hands quick to slide over my chest like she knew the script by heart.
But the second I looked at her, my chest locked. Brown curls. Green eyes. Too close. Too f*****g close.
Tristan.
His ghost slammed into me so hard I almost staggered. My rut snarled,
