Logan’s POV
Art exhibitions. My heart clenched at the thought of it.
God, if there was anything worse than pack council meetings, it was being paraded through halls filled with canvases I didn’t understand and Alphas I didn’t care to know.
The air was thick with perfume, cigar smoke, and the kind of laughter that came from people trying too hard to impress one another. Expensive suits brushed past, goblets of wine tilted, and wolves with too much money and too little sense pretended to care about brush strokes on a canvas that looked like someone sneezed paint onto linen.
But this was the game. Our father had hammered it into us since we were kids—pack politics wasn’t just forged in blood and battle. Sometimes it was forged in culture, in appearances, in shaking the right hands while
