Eleanor didn't sleep that night.
Adam's kiss still echoed on her lips, the ghost of his breath trapped against her throat like a brand. She could still feel the way his hand had cupped the back of her neck, the way he'd pulled her close as though he needed her with a hunger deeper than instinct.
And she remembered the way she'd melted.
Fool, she told herself as she paced the length of her chamber. You can't want him. You can't trust him. You were sent here with a mission.
A mission that already felt like a curse tightening around her ribs.
Yet every time she closed her eyes, she saw Adam's—dark, molten, soft in a way she'd never seen. She'd seen the alpha, the beast, the curse. But last night, for one impossible second, she glimpsed the man beneath all that weight.
And that was more dangerous than any blade.
A soft knock interrupted her spiraling thoughts.
A servant girl—Mara—peeked in, pale and trembling.
"Luna… forgive me. I was told to bring this."
She held a folded slip of parchment.
Eleanor frowned. "By whom?"
The girl swallowed. "I-I didn't see them. They left it on my station with your name."
Eleanor took it, dismissing the girl. As soon as she was alone, she unsealed it.
One sentence.
No signature.
He knows what you are.
Her pulse froze.
Her vision sharpened. The walls of the room seemed to tilt.
She crushed the note in her fist.
Someone in this pack knew.
Someone knew she wasn't here just to be Luna.
Someone knew she was sent by Alphonsus Thorne.
But who? And how much did Adam know?
A knock came again—harder this time.
That was no servant's knock.
"Eleanor."
Adam's voice rolled through the door like thunder.
Her heart lurched. She forced her breathing to steady and pushed the note deep into her pocket before opening the door.
Adam stood there in a loose, half-buttoned black shirt, his hair damp from a recent wash, his presence filling the doorway like a heat wave. His eyes scanned her face immediately.
"You didn't come down for breakfast."
"I wasn't hungry," she answered coolly.
His jaw clenched. "You didn't come down for lunch either."
"I'm not a prisoner. I don't have to explain my—"
He stepped in, closing the door behind him with one slow, deliberate motion.
The air thickened.
He walked toward her, each step smooth, predatory, but gentled by something… something restrained.
"I didn't come to fight with you," he said quietly.
"I came because I can sense you're unsettled."
Her throat tightened. Damn the bond.
It made her too readable. Too exposed.
"I'm fine," she lied.
Adam studied her. His gaze dragged over her face, down her shoulders, back up again. Not lustful—evaluating, searching.
"You're not," he murmured. "Something's wrong."
She turned away from him. "You're imagining things."
"Eleanor." He caught her wrist—gently, but firmly.
Not enough to restrain. Enough to stop her retreat.
"Talk to me."
She swallowed, forcing calm into her voice. "There's nothing to talk about."
He stepped closer than before—closer than last night—until she could feel the heat of his body against her back.
He lowered his voice.
"After last night, you avoid me. That's not nothing."
Her breath hitched.
Eleanor stepped away from him deliberately to reclaim her space.
"Don't flatter yourself."
For a moment, something like pain flashed in his eyes.
"And don't assume," she added softly, "that you know me."
He exhaled once through his nose—frustration, control.
"Then let me."
She blinked. "What?"
"Let me know you."
His voice dropped, deep and rough.
"Not as a Luna. Not as a guest. Not as… whatever your father planned."
She froze.
"You know about my father?"
The words slipped out too fast.
Adam stilled.
And in that stillness… she sensed the shift.
Not anger.
Not accusation.
But something like dread.
"Eleanor," he said slowly, "what did you just ask me?"
Her pulse roared in her ears. She needed to cover it, to twist it, to—
Too late.
Adam's eyes darkened, the cursed shadow in him stirring in response to tension.
She stepped back.
He stepped closer.
"Your father," he repeated. "You think I know something about him?"
Silence stretched between them—the dangerous kind, the kind that bent the air.
Then—
A scream cut through the hallways.
Both Eleanor and Adam snapped toward the sound.
Another scream followed.
Then shouting.
Then the crash of something heavy hitting stone.
Adam cursed and moved instantly, the alpha surging through him.
"Stay in your room!"
Eleanor shoved past him. "Not a chance."
"Eleanor—"
"Don't waste time. Move."
For half a heartbeat he hesitated—then nodded once.
They ran together.
Down the stairs.
Through the corridor.
Toward the scent of blood.
When they reached the central training yard, chaos exploded before them.
Warriors shouted, wolves snarled, and at the center lay—
—a body.
A young Nightfang warrior.
Eyes open, throat slashed.
Fresh.
Not even cooled.
Eleanor's stomach dropped.
The scent of the blood was unfamiliar, but the cut…
Clean.
Surgical.
Just like a Thorne kill.
Whispers spread among the gathered pack members.
"An assassin—inside the walls…"
"It can't be!"
"We're supposed to be protected—"
Then someone shouted:
"Alpha! She was seen with him last night!"
Every head snapped toward Eleanor.
Adam went rigid at her side.
Eleanor's blood ran cold.
And then one of the wolves—broad-shouldered, furious—stepped forward.
"I saw someone slip out of your chambers," he growled at her.
"And the scent on the body—mixed with Thorne steel."
The crowd murmured darkly.
Adam's voice dropped into the deepest register of his authority.
"Enough."
The warrior ignored him. "She's a Thorne. We all know their tricks—"
"Enough," Adam growled, louder.
"She brought a killer into our walls!"
Eleanor inhaled sharply.
Adam's hand shot out.
His claws slid from his fingers as he seized the warrior by the throat and slammed him back against a wall.
"You will not touch her."
His voice shook with fury.
"You will not accuse my mate without proof."
The yard fell silent.
Adam's chest heaved, his claws still buried in the warrior's collarbone.
Eleanor's throat tightened.
He was protecting her.
Even with suspicion.
Even with a dead body.
Even with everyone watching.
And something inside her—small, frightened, fragile—broke.
But before she could speak, another voice rose from the back of the crowd.
"It's not her," the newcomer rasped.
Everyone turned.
An old sentry limped forward, pale-faced but sharp-eyed.
"I saw the killer," he said. "Not clearly. But enough to know—"
He swallowed.
"It was a man."
Relief shattered through Eleanor so suddenly she almost stumbled.
Adam released the warrior instantly.
"Describe him," Adam demanded.
The old guard nodded weakly.
"He moved like a shadow. Dark cloak. Broad shouldered. Hair… pale."
Eleanor went cold.
Pale hair.
Shadow movement.
Thorne killing style.
No.
No. It couldn't be—
Adam turned to her slowly, scanning her face.
"Eleanor," he said quietly.
"Do you know who he's describing?"
Her breath trembled.
But she nodded.
Because she knew.
She felt it like a knife twisting between her ribs.
There was only one man who moved like that.
One man with that hair.
One man capable of slipping through wards meant to block enemies.
One man Alphonsus would trust to enforce his will.
Her brother.
Alaric Thorne.
And if Alaric was here…
Then Alphonsus wasn't just monitoring her.
He was beginning the war.