POV: Tristan
The stone floor of my private quarters felt like ice beneath my boots, but the fire in my blood was hot enough to melt the mountain. I paced the length of the room, every muscle in my body coiled like a spring. Below, in the courtyard, the sound was growing. It wasn't the sound of a pack; it was the sound of a mob.
They are calling for her, Tristan, Vane growled, his voice a jagged edge of fury against my skull. They want to tear the Silver Wolf apart before she can even learn to howl.
"I won't let them, Vane," I whispered, my voice a low rasp.
I walked to the window and looked down. The orange glow of dozens of torches illuminated the square. Hundreds of wolves—men, women, and even some of the older adolescents—had gathered. They weren't shifting, but their auras were fla
