RAVYN'S POV
He was a werewolf?
No—no, no. That was not the thing to worry about right now.
The real issue was: what in the holy hells was a man doing in the dancers' quarters?
These halls were sacred ground. Reserved. A woman-only, glitter-and-silk, gossip-and-hairpins kind of space. Not a man in sight—ever. That was the rule. The one rule everyone took seriously. The one thing even the sleaziest castle official respected.
And yet.
There he stood. All muscled, brooding, and very male—like sin waltzed in with a smirk and leather boots.
My brain screamed: Leave. Turn around and leave, Ravyn. Save your life. Save your pride. Save what's left of your morning peace.
But apparently, my brain was overruled, because the second I tried to execute that flawless survival plan, his head turned—directly toward me.
Shit.
My breath hitched. My heart didn't just skip; it flipped, tripped, and nearly somersaulted out of my chest. I froze like a deer mid-sneeze.
