ELDER NIGHTSHADE’S POV
I woke to the sun blasting through my shutters, a hot stripe across my face, my sheets soaked with sweat. My bones ached, stiff from a restless night, but Freya’s voice rang in my head—her sobs, her plea—driving me up. I swung my legs off the bed, the wood creaking under my weight, and tugged on my boots, leather scuffing my calves. My gray tunic clung damp to my chest as I grabbed my cloak, the wool heavy, and strode out, the door slamming behind me.
The Crescent Moon pack sprawled quiet outside, huts glinting under morning light, wolves padding through the dirt paths. My boots crunched gravel, my breath puffing white in the crisp air, and I headed for the stables, my gut tight with purpose. Freya’s tears had lit a fire—Lukas shunning her, that redhead Selenea sin
