After dinner, with the last plates cleared and the council still murmuring in low, dissatisfied tones, Hazel slipped her hand into Anthony’s and tugged him toward the wide double doors that led out to the sprawling grounds of Silver Crest.
“Come on,” she said, voice lighter than it had been all evening. “I want to show you the real heart of this place.”
The night air was cool and crisp, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth. Moonlight silvered the rolling hills, the training fields, the ancient oak grove where the pack held its most sacred ceremonies. Hazel walked slowly, pointing out landmarks with quiet pride: the stone circle where Alphas had been crowned for generations, the hidden spring whose waters were said to sharpen a wolf’s senses, the scarred stretch of meadow where a bor
