The Blackwood territory slammed into Akira's senses like a fist to the sternum—thousands of scent markers layered so thick she could taste them on her tongue. Dominance and submission, birth and death, s*x and violence, all braided together in a tapestry that made her dire wolf rise beneath her skin, hackles lifting at the sheer weight of accumulated power.
Her body responded viscerally—pupils dilating, nostrils flaring, every nerve ending suddenly hyperaware. The scents told stories her human brain couldn't fully parse but her wolf understood with brutal clarity: blood spilled in challenge, cubs born in safety, matings that strengthened bloodlines, deaths that ended dynasties. Generation upon generation of Blackwood wolves had pissed and bled and f****d their claim into this earth until
