There, on my worktable, lies a perfectly skinned white wolf.
Its throat torn open with surgical elegance.
Its chest stuffed with dew-covered white roses.
And beside it, a card:
*Welcome to the game, little hunter.
Your disguise is adorable. —K*
My heart slams against my ribs.
He knows.
He always knew.
But that isn’t the worst part.
The roses—
their petals are edged in a familiar shade of blue.
Lizzie’s favorite forget-me-not blue.
And suddenly memory crashes down on me:
the night my twin sister was taken, ten years ago—
her dress stained with those same blue wildflowers.
And in Caleb’s study…
a portrait of Lizzie.
Wearing a dress dyed with that same impossible blue.
The truth hits me like a blade.
The man I’m trying to kill…
might be the one who’s kept my sister alive.
My fingers rise to my bare neck—
the silver hunter’s necklace gone,
replaced by something colder:
Caleb Blackwood’s invisible chain.
And his voice echoing in my skull:
“Let’s see, in this little game of replacements…
which one of us rips the other’s mask off first.”
Blackwood Manor feels less like a home and more like a velvet-lined prison.
My new bedroom is enormous in a way that feels hostile, all dark red velvet and too many gold-framed mirrors—each one reflecting a face that isn’t mine.
Lizzie’s face.
Her portraits hang in every hallway.
Her piano sits untouched in the corner.
And the walk-in closet is filled with dresses in her style—soft blue, airy, dreamlike.
“Ma’am, the lord wishes you to wear this for dinner.”
The maid holds out a pale blue silk gown, her expression full of pity.
I’m not his wife.
I’m a prisoner, a prop, a living stand-in for a woman who no longer breathes.
But I smile and take the dress.
“Tell him I love it.”
Revenge requires patience.
And I’m a very good hunter.
At dinner, Caleb’s gaze barely leaves my face.
He studies me like I’m an ancient text written in a language only he understands.
“You don’t play piano like she did,” he says casually, slicing into his steak.
“I don’t play at all.”
I keep my fork and knife perfectly quiet.
“I dissect animals.”
His lips curve, almost amused.
“Lizzie fainted at the sight of blood.”
“I don’t faint,” I say, meeting his eyes.
“I get excited. Especially when it’s the blood of someone I’m hunting.”
The room freezes. Even the servants stop breathing.
Then he laughs—genuine, warm, almost boyish.
“For the first time in three years, someone has the guts to threaten me.”
He rises, walks the length of the table, and bends toward me. His breath brushes my ear, warm enough to shiver through me.
“But you’re not here to kill me, are you, little hunter?”
His voice is a dangerous whisper.
“You’re here for the truth. About who really killed your fiancé.”
My heart stops.
“You—”
“After dinner,” he cuts in smoothly, straightening.
“Come to my study. I’ll show you something.”
His study smells like old books, whiskey, and lies.
My hand tightens beneath my skirt—around the silver dagger strapped to my thigh.
“Relax,” he says without turning around, pouring two glasses of amber liquid.
“If I wanted to hurt you, you would’ve died on the threshold.”
He hands me a glass.
Our fingers brush.
A spark jumps between us—sharp, hot, too familiar.
“Look.”
He opens an old wooden box.
Inside are photographs.
Not gruesome.
Not violent.
Just… memories.
A girl running through a garden.
Laughing on a swing.
Sunlight in her hair.
A girl who looks exactly like me—except her eyes are sky-blue.
Lizzie.
“Three years ago, on the night of the full moon,” Caleb says, jaw tight,
“She waited for me at the chapel we used to go to. When I got there, this was all I found.”
He flips a photo.
On the back, written in dark ink, is a message:
The hunter’s price.
My breath catches.
That handwriting—
I know it.
Miles.
Leo’s second-in-command.
The man who hated werewolves more than anything.
“You thought I killed her,” Caleb murmurs, stepping closer.
“So you came to kill me. But the truth is—someone from your side murdered the only thing that kept me human.”