SLOANE
The minute we landed in Aragon Pack, I felt it.
That heavy pull in my chest. That quiet warning in my bones that something was wrong.
Adrian barely spoke during the drive from the private airstrip to the pack house. His focus stayed on the road. His jaw stayed tight. His shoulders were stiff, like he was holding himself back from snapping at something—or someone.
When the car finally stopped in front of the Aragon estate, he stepped out first. Cold air rushed in, sharp and clean, carrying the scent of pine, snow, and wolf.
I followed him inside, my boots echoing against the marble floor.
At the door to our suite, he stopped so suddenly I almost ran into his back.
“Stay here,” he said.
His tone wasn’t unkind, but it wasn’t gentle either.
“I have something to attend to.”
I
