Meanwhile, that tiny scratch on Selene's finger warranted this level of devotion—him kneeling before her, ready to lay the entire territory at her feet.
Lyra stared at the screen, gripping the communicator so hard her fingertips turned white, her knuckles audibly cracking.
The glow of the screen reflected in her reddened eyes. Every memory of her time with Fenris—every promise, every vow, every time he'd nuzzled against her neck and sworn she was his fated one—now twisted into blades that carved into her heart. The pain was suffocating. Her throat closed up. She couldn't make a sound.
It took a full thirty seconds before she could draw a breath deep enough to swallow the sob rising in her throat.
She opened her personal archive and pulled up the surveillance recording from the Ashenvale den's main hall—captured by the hidden scry-stone she'd installed behind a decorative tapestry, a precaution she'd taken against Selene long ago.
The recording was crystal clear: Selene raising the ceremonial porcelain vase. The impact. The triumphant smirk on her face afterward. Her scent spiking with satisfaction rather than distress.