“Can you blame them?” Ash, Oren’s wife, sits beside him looking as fierce as ever. “Bastian spent months gathering intel on the Llewelyn pack. Who knows what other operatives might be embedded in our territories right now?”
The discussion goes in circles for another hour. Everyone agrees we need better coordination, but nobody wants to be the first to volunteer their pack’s secrets. I take notes in my journal, documenting arguments and concerns for future reference.
Finally, Oren calls for a vote. The intelligence network passes with a narrow majority.
“Reeyan, you’re still heading to Llewelyn tonight to discuss logistics?” Oren looks at me from across the table.
I check my watch and grumble at how late it’s gotten. “That was the plan. Though it’s getting late. I might not arrive until after dark.”
“The roads are safe enough. Just take the main route, and you’ll be fine.” He stands, signaling the end of the meeting. “Give Matriarch Lydia my regards. Tell her we wish she could’ve joined us for today’s meeting.”
The other council members file out, leaving me to pack up my materials. I grab my leather case full of maps anddocumentation, along with the worn journal that never leaves my side. Years of observations and research condensed into one battered book.
My truck is parked outside the packhouse, dusty from desert roads and overdue for an oil change. I toss my case onto the passenger seat and climb in before starting the engine with a familiar rattle. The vehicle is old but reliable, which is all I need.
The drive from the heart of Grayhide territory to the Llewelyn border takes about two hours on a good day. I’m making decent time despite the late start, watching the landscape transition from the red desert to the rocky terrain that marks the boundary between territories.
Twilight paints everything in shades of purple and gold. The temperature drops as I drive, and I crack the window to let in cooler air. My mind runs through the presentation I’ve prepared for Matriarch Lydia and her council. Historical precedents for intelligence sharing, examples of successful collaboration between packs, projected benefits of early threat detection.
I’ve spent weeks preparing for this meeting. The Llewelyn pack is notoriously insular. After the Bastian betrayal, they seemed to be on board with a full-blown alliance, but then they slowly retreated into themselves even more than before. Convincing them to participate in an intelligence network will require every ounce of diplomatic skill I possess.
Which isn’t much, if I’m being honest. I’m better with books than people.
Movement catches my eye off to the right.
I slow the truck and squint at a cluster of rock formations about fifty yards from the road. At first, I think it’s just animals, or maybe shadows playing tricks in the fading sun. Then I seethem clearly—three figures dragging someone toward a large black vehicle hidden behind the rocks.
The someone is fighting back. Hard.
I pull over and grab my binoculars from the glove compartment. Through the lenses, details come into focus. Three men, all built like fighters, restraining a woman who’s putting up one hell of a struggle. She manages to wrench one arm free and scratches deep gouges across the nearest guy’s face with elongated nails.
Good for her.
Then I see her face properly, and everything inside me goes still.
Silver-blonde hair, long and straight, now tangled from the fight. Pale skin that marks her as Llewelyn. She’s tall for a woman, maybe five-nine, with an athletic build that speaks to regular training. Even from this distance, I can make out her pale blue eyes—almost crystalline in the dying sun—blazing with fury as she tries to break free.
Sera Thornwick.
I’ve never officially met her, but Raegan has talked about her friend from Llewelyn territory enough, and I’ve seen her in passing from a distance. And I’ve kept that distance because something about her makes my wolf…unsettled. It’s not just that she’s gorgeous—and by the moon, is she gorgeous—but somehow just looking at her from a distance has always made my heart kick up, and I don’t particularly care for that feeling.
The men holding her definitely aren’t Grayhide or Llewelyn. I catch their scents on the evening breeze—Thornridge operatives. The same signature I’ve been tracking for months; the same threat I’ve been warning the council about.
They found a target. A high-value one, if they’re going after Raegan’s closest friend.
My wolf rushes forward with a violence that catches me completely off guard.
Protect her. Save her. She’s ours.
The possessiveness slams into me like a freight train. I’ve never felt anything like this before, this primal need to defend someone I don’t even know. My wolf has always been present, always aware, but never demanding. Never this insistent.
She’s ours, my wolf repeats.Ours. Protect.
Oh, hell.
I don’t have time to process what my wolf is telling me, because those Thornridge operatives are shoving Sera toward their vehicle. One of them pulls out what looks like a suppressor—the same kind of device they used during the attack on Raegan’s wedding. The kind designed to cut off a shifter’s connection to their wolf.
I drop the binoculars and reach for the door handle. My wolf is already pushing forward, demanding we shift and tear those men apart for daring to touch what belongs to us. The rational part of my brain—the historian who always thinks three steps ahead—tries to form a plan.
