The heavy oak doors of the mansion had barely begun to swing shut when a sharp, commanding voice cut through the courtyard, freezing the departing warriors and delegates in their tracks.
"Hold those doors."
From the gravel path, a sleek silver sedan that had trailing the Frosthound convoy came to a smooth stop. The rear door opened, and Cordia Whitmore the Dowager Luna and Draven’s mother stepped out. She was wrapped in an exquisite sable coat, her silver-streaked hair swept up into a flawless, rigid chignon.
"Mother," Draven growled, his arm instantly returning to my waist, his grip tighter than before. The ozone scent of his anger flared, heavy and warnings. "You were supposed to be at the western estate."
"And leave my house to be systematically dismantled by a pack of northern wol
