Ashyra woke to the sound of howling—low, guttural, and distant. It wasn’t the song of celebration or a pack’s nightly claim. This one held warning. Grief. Rage. Her eyes flew open, senses sharpening in an instant.
The infirmary tent was quiet, dimly lit by the morning sun filtering through thick canvas. The sharp tang of antiseptic and drying blood clung to the air, but it was the tension outside that made her stomach knot.
She pushed herself upright, wincing as her shoulder protested. The bite from last night’s rogue had healed enough to stop the bleeding, but the memory of its fangs sinking into her flesh lingered like a phantom ache. Her skin still felt scorched from the bond’s flare—Stephan’s touch, his kiss, the fire it had ignited.
She gritted her teeth and swung her legs over the
