Her steps were extraordinarily slow, each one deliberate, as though she was moving through water.
The thin garment she wore swayed faintly with her movement. It was long and soft, covering every inch of her skin in a way that hid the scars she knew she would find if she dared to take it off.
The knowledge of them sat on her shoulders like a weight. It didn't hurt anymore — not in the way it once had — but looking at it did. Seeing what she had become was its own kind of agony.
'How can someone like me get revenge?' Fiona mumbled to herself under her breath, the words barely audible even to her own ears. She knew the truth of her situation all too well.
Most of the power she had once possessed came not from brute strength, but from her beauty and the status of being her father's daughter. That beauty had been her armor, her influence, and her weapon. Now… it was tarnished. And as a werewolf, she was much weaker than even the elite guards who stood watch in the halls.
