I force my attention back to Monroe. “Double the patrol rotation while they’re with us. I want eyes on the perimeter at all times.”
“Already done,” Monroe says. “Though I have to ask, are we expecting trouble?”
“No. But I’m not taking chances with visiting pack members in our territory.”
It’s a reasonable precaution. It has nothing to do with the fact that the thought of Sienna in any kind of danger makes my wolf snarl with violent protectiveness.
Nothing at all.
The forest thickens around us as we drive deeper into the borderland. The road here is well-maintained but narrow, forcing the convoy into a tighter formation. Trees press close on both sides, their branches forming a canopy overhead that blocks out most of the afternoon sun.
My phone buzzes with a text from Marcus, checking in from Moonvale: Assessment going well. Will send full report tonight.
I type back a quick acknowledgment and pocket my phone.
“Quiet so far,” my driver observes.
Too quiet, instinct whispers in the back of my mind. I pause, paying attention to my ears.
I don’t hear birds. Or any other animal in the forest.
On my tablet, I pull up the live security camera feeds from each vehicle in the convoy, then the drone footage from our perimeter patrol. Everything looks normal. Clear road ahead, no danger, no—
Movement in the tree line.
I grab my radio, my eyes locked on the drone feed.
“Monroe. Northwest quadrant. Do you see that?”
His response comes through the static. “Confirmed. Multiple heat signatures moving parallel to the convoy.”
I switch to thermal imaging. Six—no, seven distinct shapes moving through the forest. Too large to be deer. Too coordinated to be random wildlife.
Wolves.
“All vehicles, possible contact,” I say into the general radio line, my voice calm despite the adrenaline starting to spike through my system. “Security teams on alert. Do not break formation.”
Acknowledgments crackle back.
I watch the thermal signatures on the screen. They’re keeping pace with us, staying just inside the tree line. Not attacking. Not retreating. Just…tracking.
“Rogues?” Monroe asks on our private channel.
“Most likely.” I zoom in on the feed, trying to get a better read. “Small pack. Displaced, probably. Looking for easy targets.”
“We are not easy targets,” Monroe says.
“They will know that soon.”
The wolves continue paralleling us. I count them again. Seven. Not enough to take on a full convoy with trained security, but enough to cause problems if they’re desperate or stupid.
My animal is on high alert now, every sense focused on the potential threat.
Suddenly, I see them shift direction. They are no longer moving parallel to the convoy—they’re angling toward us.
“Contact imminent,” I snap into the radio. “Security teams engage on my mark. Drivers maintain speed and formation.”
“Sir,” one of my guards in the back seat says, already reaching for his weapon. “Which vehicle are they targeting?”
