On the outskirts of Thorne Maddox’s pack, a group of seventeen rogues rested around a dim fire, their tents and few belongings cast in shadows behind them.
Ragnar, the leader of the small band, leaned against a fallen tree trunk, his sharp eyes scanning the camp and its people. Their living conditions were far from ideal, but they had managed well despite it all. They had refused to cower before Thorne, and each of them had lost one or more loved ones to his relentless expansion, enslaving those he deemed refugees and rogues. Ragnar hated the fact that Thorne couldn’t accept the idea that some people simply wanted to be free, unbound by any alpha or rigid leadership.
His piercing blue eyes flicked over the activities around him, his ears picking up every movement beneath the laughter and
