clawing at her chest as though desperately trying to warn her
Then Genevieve smelled it. Arthur. Her fated mate.
The father of her unborn pup. Mixed with lavender and crushed roses.
Beatrice. Her younger sister.
Genevieve stopped outside the abandoned armory.
The door stood slightly open.
“You promised me,” Beatrice whispered from inside.
“You said you would tell her.” Genevieve froze. Arthur sighed.
“It isn’t that simple.” “Why? Because she’s pregnant?”
“She is carrying my heir.”
Continue on the next page:
