Audrey realized, with a slow tightening of disbelief, that Danielle really was tied to the Waynes.
If someone had told her that a year ago, she would have laughed—actually laughed, teeth bared, breath fogging like a hyena on a winter trail.
Danielle and Margaret had lived in an old, cramped apartment tucked into a forgotten corner of the Blackthorne territory. No fancy trimmings, no hint of old bloodlines or wealthy pack prestige. They didn't even share a surname.
Danielle had never acted like someone born to power. There had never been a trace of the spoiled arrogance carried by a high-ranking family. Her life had always been simple—almost painfully frugal. She hoarded coupons like treasures, patched her clothes instead of buying new ones. Nothing about her had ever screamed pack royalty.
Who in their right mind would have associated her with Dorian Wayne?
"Ms. Willow has helped Bonnie a few times," Dorian said, his voice smooth, cool, and commanding as a moonlit forest.
