The treeline marked the exact boundary where the jagged, frozen hostility of the high peaks surrendered to the dense, pine-scented sanctuary of the valley floor. And just as Jax had predicted, Elana Blackwood was there, pacing a trench into the hard-packed snow.
Her blacked-out SUV, an armored behemoth usually reserved for official pack business or transporting the High Luna, was idling nearby. The exhaust plumed in thick white clouds into the biting air, keeping the interior warm, but Elana wasn’t inside. She was marching back and forth in front of the grille, her heavy fur coat pulled tight against her throat, her boots crunching a rhythmic path of pure maternal anxiety.
As she paced, her breath puffing in quick bursts, Elana’s mind drifted back three years. She remembered the smell of
