In the lore of the northern packs, a raven’s feather pinned to a dwelling showing "Mark of Interest." It meant: We see you. We are coming.
My hands, already raw from the cold and the constant washing of baby linens, began to shake. I retreated into the cabin.
Ronan stirred in his cradle, a soft whimpering sound escaping his tiny throat. I rushed to him, scooping him up with desperation that bordered on frantic. I didn't care if I woke him. I needed to feel the heat of his body, the proof that he was still here, still mine.
“They found us,” I whispered into his hair.
“I won’t let them. I’ll burn this forest down before I let them touch you.”
I began to pace, my mind a frantic bird trapped in a cage. I should run. I could wrap Ronan in the thickest w
