The tent stank of smoke and sweat and blood that would never wash out.
Outside, the Conclave was unraveling. Wolves shouted and snarled, dragged their packs through the mud. Canvas flapped in the wind, tearing. The bonfires that had burned all day in the name of unity guttered low and choked to embers. The pack bond that should have knotted every wolf in that valley together was buzzing like a nest of hornets. Rael could feel the tension of it vibrating against his skull—fear and lust and confusion and all of it bleeding back through the tether so that he could no longer tell which hunger was his.
He stalked back and forth, boots grinding dirt into the bloody canvas floor. The inside of his mouth tasted like copper. His knuckles were raw where he’d smashed something—someone—hours ago.
H
