The heavy thud of Draven’s boots faded down the upstairs hallway, but the suffocating silence he left behind didn't last long.
Before I could even take a full, restorative breath, the distinctive clack-clack-clack of standard-issue pack warrior boots echoed from the front porch. The heavy oak doors swung open for the second time that night, but it wasn't the Dowager Luna stepping through.
It was Elder Thomas.
As the head of the Whitmore Pack’s traditionalist council, Thomas was a walking relic who smelled of old parchment, stale dirt, and unyielding judgment. But it wasn’t his presence that made my inner wolf instantly bristle and bare her phantom fangs. It was the woman walking half a step behind him.
She was stunning, radiating a cold, lethal elegance that practically screamed high-b
