Her first instinct was denial. The pack didn’t call emergency assemblies without reason. War, border breaches, or the Alpha’s direct decree. Whatever it was, it would not be good.
Ignoring a summons wasn’t an option. Not for anyone who wanted to stay in the pack’s good graces. Not for her, especially.
She muttered a quick healing spell, wrapping her injured palms in a cord, healing the small hurts. Then she washed her hands quickly, scrubbing the last traces of chalk from beneath her nails. The basin water clouded white, swirling away into the drain. She tied her hair back, buttoned a clean blouse, and pulled on her coat, the plain gray one that made her look as forgettable as possible.
Half the pack would already be there. She needed to get a move on.
Her heart stuttered in her throat.
It was fine. Whatever it was, it was pack business. She only needed to be there as a formality, and then she could go back to pretending she truly was an outcast.
She just needed to stay out of Dominic’s way.
Chapter 7 - Layla
When she stepped outside, the air hit her like a slap. The sun had gone down without her noticing, and the streetlights had already flickered on, halos of gold in the fog. The road leading toward the Old Sawmill was crowded with shadows moving in the same direction, people walking in twos and threes, silent or murmuring under their breath. The unease was contagious; even the youngest wolves moved with purpose.
Layla tucked her hands into her coat pockets and followed the current.
The path wound downhill through the edge of town, where the houses thinned, and the air took on the damp, resinous scent of the forest. The Sawmill had stood there since before the pack settled in Skymist, an old, ribbed skeleton of a building half-swallowed by moss and time. The Volkhovs had claimed it as their gathering hall generations ago, long before The Anchor had been built, when secrecy from the humans was even more important.
By the time Layla reached the clearing, torches already burned outside the doors.
Layla hesitated at the edge of the crowd, pulling her coat tighter. Every instinct told her to stay at the back. Blend in. Be invisible.
But even she could sense the eyes that followed her.
She could feel them, pack members she’d grown up with, their curiosity tinged with the same mixture of pity and unease she’d felt for years. The Hawthorne girl, the one who couldn’t shift. The one who’d fallen out of favor. The one whose brother had climbed high out of the dreck.
A sharp laugh carried from somewhere near the doors, “Didn’t thinkshe’dshow up,” a woman said, not quietly enough.
Layla didn’t turn.
Instead, she fixed her eyes on the entrance. The heavy double doors stood open, the space beyond pulsing with firelight. She could see movement inside, rows of benches, the central platform raised against the far wall.
Her throat tightened when she spotted Theodore.
He stood near the front, just below the platform, dressed in the dark uniform of the Volkhov guard. His posture was impeccable: shoulders back, head high, every inch the lieutenant he’d fought to become. From a distance, he looked older than she remembered. Or perhaps she just never got the opportunity to see him like this. She wondered if he’d notice her. Part of her hoped he wouldn’t.
Beside him, Dominic Volkhov stood unmovable as he surveyed the crowd. The Alpha’s presence anchored the room; even from where she stood at the threshold, Layla could feel the weight of it. He wasn’t speaking yet, but the pack stayed quiet nevertheless, waiting for him to step forward.
She crept inside, trying to be small, but the sound of the door creaking behind her drew several heads her way. A few people fell silent when they recognized her. She walked faster, slipping toward the shadowed side wall, where she could stand near the edge of the benches without drawing attention. She took a place near one of the side pillars, half-hidden. Her heart hadn’t stopped its steady pounding since she’d left home.
The pack always looked different when gathered like this. Hundreds of people pressed into one small space, their energy mingling together. Even the few members of the Nordan pack, invited no doubt in the interest of diplomacy, seemed part of it.She recognized Chase, second-in-command to the Nordan and Arthur’s younger brother, murmuring in low tones with a few Volkhov warriors.
Of course they were so readily accepted. Despite their white and blue uniforms, they were wolves, the same as everyone in the room.
Everyone but her.
Her gaze drifted back to the front.
Dominic’s expression was carved from stone, but she could see the tension in the set of his jaw, the way his fingers flexed once at his side before going still again. To his right stood Julian Rook, silent, watchful, his sharp profile illuminated by torchlight.
Layla’s stomach twisted. Whatever this was, it wasn’t a routine council announcement. Not with Julian there. Not with the whole pack summoned with no notice.
She looked toward Theodore again. He was speaking quietly to another officer, his face unreadable, eyes flicking toward Dominic and back. There was a flash of something she couldn’t quite name. Worry, maybe. An alpha’s unease.
Her chest tightened.
