It’s been a month with no word on the location of Georgia. The visions of the brown wolf come and go at irregular intervals but usually on an evening, just after nightfall. The more I see the wolf, the more convinced I have become that my wolf was right, it is ours. Most likely birthed by that human, Georgia Monroe. This was not ideal. Not in the slightest. I didn’t want to have a half breed son to lay a claim on my pack. A weak ass wolf to be destroyed by others and to lose the pack that had been my home my whole life, and my father’s and his father’s before him. For the pack to be annihilated or taken over by others. I don’t know how far back the pack has been ruled by my family but as far back as I care to look. However much I don’t want to acknowledge this wolf is my own, my curiosity
