The crisp autumn air of the campus quad felt entirely different the next morning. The lingering high of the mountain cabin, the sharp scent of pine and winter ozone, and the fierce weight of the dual-marking seemed a million miles away as I walked toward the administrative building between my classes.
Then I caught the scent.
It hit me before I even rounded the corner of the brick lecture hall—heavy, rigid, and reeking of stale pack-law authority and bitter disapproval. Pine needle, damp earth, and bitter ash.
My wolf instantly bristled, a low, defensive growl vibrating in the back of my throat. I stopped dead in my tracks.
Standing near the fountain, looking entirely out of place in his tailored jacket and severe, commanding posture, was my father.
Arthur Green. Beta of the Bloodmoon
