For all the noise in the Council chamber, the secure floor was quiet.
Too quiet.
The guard at our door straightened when he saw me. “Ms. Rowan. All clear. No unusual activity.”
My wolf eased a fraction. Grace had rotated her people like she promised; the scents in the corridor were familiar now. Not pack. Not yet. But known.
Inside, the suite smelled like cocoa, paper, and faint lingering fear.
Mara sat at the table with a mug between her palms, jaw set. Someone had shoved two armchairs together to make a makeshift fort; my son and El were inside, a blanket draped over the top like a tent.
“El?” I called softly.
The blanket rustled. A small head popped out, hair wild, eyes sharp.
“Mama.” He sniffed, like checking for blood. Satisfied, he wriggled fully into view. “We made a lair.”
