Ronan couldn't sleep.
His bedchamber, once a sanctuary of solitude and power, now felt like a prison made of regrets. The moonlight spilled through the large windows, casting long shadows across the cold stone floor. He stood by the hearth, absently watching the fire flicker and die. Every crackle of ember reminded him of her—Aria.
He had dreamt of her again. Not the fragile omega he once rejected, but the woman she had become. Ferocious. Radiant. A storm cloaked in grace. And worst of all? She had looked him in the eyes and smiled—before turning her back.
Ronan's fingers curled into fists.
His wolf snarled within, restless, pained.
"You did this."
The voice echoed in his head, unrelenting.
Yes, he had. And for what? Control? Fear? The illusion of power?
