ENZO
I DIDN’T REMEMBER the first day. Or the second.
Everything after Tristan’s body lay on the floor blurred into one suffocating nightmare. I didn’t remember them dragging me away, but I remembered waking and running back, how they pried me off him—four guards, maybe five—and how I fought until my claws cracked and my throat tore raw from screaming his name. I only stopped when I tasted my own blood, when I realized I was trying to rip open my own skin just to feel something other than the bond dead in my chest.
They threw me in a storage room. Concrete floor. No windows. The fading scent of my mate still clung to my hands. In my jacket pocket, the small camera Tristan had used to take our pictures that night pressed against my ribs. I knew it was there, but I couldn’t look at it. I c
