Martha’s arms trembled as she and Ragnar carried Lily’s unconscious body through the packhouse doors. Rage and grief burned in her chest.
“In here,” Martha directed, voice breaking as they entered Lily’s room.
They laid her gently on the bed. Martha’s fingers shakily hovered over the marks on Lily’s neck—angry red welts where chains had dug into her flesh. Silver burns. Her shoulder bore a fresh, savage bite mark.
“I can’t believe this,” Martha whispered, tears streaming down her weathered face. “I thought things were getting better…”
Ragnar stood at the foot of the bed, fists clenched so tight his knuckles turned white. “We’ve been fooled. This is Alpha Zayn’s doing. I can smell his scent all over her.”
Martha shook her head vehemently, refusing to believe it. “Maybe someone else attacked her. Maybe—”
“Stop it,” Ragnar cut in, his voice tight with barely contained fury. “You know exactly who did this. His Alpha scent is unmistakable.”
