The estate gates stood wide open when the cars rolled through.
Sylvia watched from the back seat of Adam's vehicle, her fingers curled loosely in her
lap.
Her head still ached dully where the stone had hit.
Dried blood marked a dark line near her temple.
Warriors on bikes and in trucks flanked them, a quiet moving wall of muscle and
discipline.
Every time the car turned, she caught glimpses of familiar territory—trees she'd run past
as a child, paths she'd taken to the training grounds, the distant roofline of the Pack
House.
Only this time, everything felt smaller.
Adam sat beside her, calm as ever, one elbow resting on the door, eyes on the drive ahead.
He hadn't spoken much since they'd left the hospital.
He didn't need to.
His presence filled the car.
Her wolf stretched
