Lyra told herself she was only going in for coffee and a meeting.
The rest of Hollow Ridge had other ideas.
Morning light spilled through the big windows when she pushed open the main-house door. The place was already loud: clatter of dishes, overlapping voices, the warm hum of too many bodies in one room.
The big table in the main room was a battlefield of plates. Wolves in various states of dress were wedged shoulder to shoulder, passing bowls, stealing toast, arguing about patrol rotations.
Every head turned for a beat when Lyra stepped in.
Her wolf flinched, wanting to duck back out. Lyra kept her shoulders loose and her chin level.
“Lyra,” Elara called from near the far end. “Coffee’s on. Sit, before Kian tries to live on syrup alone.”
“I can hear you,” Kian complained, perched
