The gala was a sea of moving bodies, expensive perfumes, and the sharp, metallic tang of hidden weapons. For Hunter, the Alpha of the Blood-Moon, the air felt thick and stale. He stood on the edge of the ballroom floor, his fingers tracing the rim of an untouched glass of whiskey. To the world, he was the immovable pillar of the North, the man who had rebuilt a pack from the ashes of betrayal.
But inside, his wolf, Bane, was pacing—a restless, rhythmic prowl that usually preceded a storm.
Since "Lady Vane" had stepped into the room, the atmosphere hadn't just changed; it had warped. Hunter’s senses, honed by years of warfare and survival, were on a hair-trigger. He scanned the crowd, his golden eyes cutting through the artificial glamour of the socialites and the posturing of the lesser
