The Conclave grounds were like a battlefield. Blood had stained the circle of stones black in the first dawn light, and fires had burned low, sending tendrils of smoke curling through the camp in gray whirling ribbons. Wolves prowled the camp in restless clusters, their eyes flashing in the half-light, their voices sharp with hunger and fear and rage.
Everywhere, Vera’s name hissed like smoke.
She is marked.
She is cursed.
She is his.
Marcus strode through it all like a blade sliding across silk. His wolves followed close — lean, sharp-eyed, every last one of them radiating the same dark confidence as their Alpha. When Marcus spoke, he did not have to raise his voice. Did not have to shout. The air swayed toward him, every ear c*****g to hear the words that he had to say, what the
