Chapter 8: Whispers in the Dark

The days after the rain-soaked punishment fell into a new, grim rhythm. Emilia’s body ached with a deep, bone-weary cold that a dozen hot showers could not erase. But the shivering had stopped. In its place was a still, cold focus that saw everything with unnerving clarity. She was a ghost in the machinery of the pack house. She scrubbed floors, emptied trash, and polished silver, her eyes downcast, her posture the very picture of broken submission. Wesley watched her sometimes, a flicker of satisfaction in his gaze before he turned back to Sarah’s chattering or the pack’s business. He saw what he wanted to see: a spirit extinguished. He was wrong. The humiliation had been a forge, and the ember of resolve in her heart had been tempered into steel. The countdown was no longer a passive wait; it was a deadline for an escape she would seize with her own hands. Her first move was the library. The massive, oak-paneled room was rarely used