—Natasha's POV—
The fragile, post-tie calm, a tense ceasefire brokered by exhaustion, shattered three days later. It did not end with a public confrontation or the roar of an engine, but with a summons delivered with the chilling formality of a bygone era. A grim-faced senior enforcer from Zane’s own pack, a man named Gregor with a scar bisecting his eyebrow and eyes the color of a winter sky, found him in the warehouse garage. Zane was elbow-deep in the engine of his motorcycle, the rhythmic, methodical work a futile attempt to quiet the restless energy that had plagued him since the race.
Gregor did not speak until he was standing directly beside the bike. “The Council of Elders demands your presence,” he intoned, his voice devoid of inflection. “Immediately.”
The words were a bucket
