The rogue camp sat deep within the Blackthorn Forest.
Far beyond Damon’s territory.
Far beyond the reach of pack patrols.
Hidden among ancient trees and abandoned ruins.
It was the kind of place nightmares were born.
Large wolves prowled between tents.
Warriors sharpened weapons beside roaring fires.
Scars covered nearly every face.
These weren’t ordinary rogues.
They were survivors.
Killers.
Mercenaries.
And they all served one man.
A man feared even among rogues.
Alpha Ronan Black.
The Rogue King.
Ronan sat upon a crude wooden throne inside the largest tent.
His massive frame seemed to dominate the entire space.
Dark hair fell to his shoulders.
Old scars crossed his face.
His eyes glowed amber beneath the firelight.
Predatory.
Patient.
Dangerous.
A warrior hurried
