Arwen
The figure who steps out of the trees is not a Rogue. He’s not Alpha Ivar, or one of his sons.
He is nothing like Bode—in other words, he’s not a Lycan.
This man is tall — impossibly tall — with the kind of grace that makes the world seem clumsy around him. His hair is pale gold, braided intricately down his back. His clothing is woven silver and forest‑green, embroidered with runes that shimmer faintly in the fading light.
He is an Elf.
A Royal one.
My breath catches in my throat at the realization.
Beside me, Viggo growls — low, deep, dangerous. My father growls too, and within seconds, male pack members spill into the clearing, forming a protective circle around us. Their auras scream that they will kill any threat to the pack.
Alpha Kai steps forward, power radiating from
