Jeremy Sinclair’s POV
The war tent smelled of damp earth, blood, and burning herbs.
Rain tapped softly against the stretched canvas overhead while firelight flickered across the maps spread over the massive oak table before me.
Red markers covered more territory now.
The Last Growl Pack was bleeding exactly as planned.
Still not enough.
I studied the black markers remaining near the eastern territories, tracing possible routes with one finger while distant screams drifted through the camp outside.
War always sounded the same eventually.
Pain. Fear. Desperation.
A scout entered the tent and immediately dropped to one knee, panting helplessly.
“My Alpha,” he said breathlessly, “the girl has left the mansion.”
That made me smile.
Finally.
“She travels east with a small group,” h
