The first sign of trouble was the smell.
Celeste stepped into the packhouse kitchen and nearly gagged. Something had been “marked,” and it wasn’t subtle.
“Is that... wolf pee on the spice rack?” she choked, backing up.
Lisa, perched on the counter with a mug of coffee and the thousand-yard stare of a battle-weary general, didn’t even flinch. “Yes. And no, I haven’t figured out who. I narrowed it down to three suspects: two Shadow Fang warriors and Logan.”
“Logan wouldn’t—”
“He got territorial about the cinnamon stash.”
Celeste blinked. “Okay. Fair.”
The newly minted Lunar Fang pack was, in theory, one unified force. In practice, it was a group of moody, territorial werewolves testing boundaries like bored puppies with super strength.
The prank war had started harmlessly enough. A S
