Damon
It had taken weeks of subtle questions and late-night searches, cross-referencing old infirmary logs with palace procurement ledgers no one bothered to secure.
I hadn’t told Ronan. I hadn’t even told Jackson. This wasn’t a matter I could trust anyone else with.
The pieces didn’t fall into place so much as collapse, slow, silent, and undeniable.
A coded order for a rare herb extract, delivered in secret to the Ashford estate infirmary over a decade ago. A palace apothecary reassigned after handling “non-standard herbal compounds.”
A tonic formula marked with a seal I recognized only because I’d seen it once before, years ago, on a condolence card: Luna Ella’s, as in Lila’s stepmother’s, personal crest.
She hadn’t just known. She had orchestrated it.
Lila’s suppressed wolf.
