AMARANTA POV
If someone had told me that the most terrifying moment of my return home would not be the spirits whispering in the walls, not the coven gathering in tense silence, and not even the looming possibility of a necromancer trying to rip open the veil between life and death, but instead the way my mother’s eyes looked at me across a candlelit room like I had personally insulted three generations of ancestors simply by existing, I might have laughed.
Right now, though, I wasn’t laughing.
Mostly because I had just walked back into the house where I grew up after years of radio silence, I was holding the hand of a six-foot-four werewolf who had just threatened my mother in the politest possible way, and six witches were staring at us like we had just dropped a live grenade into the
