ADAM
I watched them leave. The doors had barely shut when the silence descended again, heavier than before. Her scent still lingered—warm spice and earth after rain.
Sage. Even the name was an irony. A woman like that didn't need wisdom to survive—she needed restraint, and she had none of it.
I leaned back in my chair, pushing the plate away, the remnants of food untouched. Her words kept circling my head like vultures. The men I'd sent to inquire about her—killed. Or so she'd said, with that taunting smirk, like she wanted me to doubt myself, to question the authority I held in my own pack. And damn it, it worked.
She hadn't denied it either, not really. Her tongue danced on that thin line between truth and provocation. Maybe the men were dead. Maybe they weren't. Maybe she'd killed them herself, that brazen witch.
The hall was still. Even the brides had stopped whispering for a while. But the peace didn't last.
