By the time Sylvia stepped out of the Pack House, her legs felt
like they were made of sand.
The cold air hit her first.
Then the silence.
Inside, voices rose again the moment the door shut—muffled, angry, buzzing like a hive.
Out here, the only sounds were wind in the trees and the distant hum of traffic.
Her cheek still burned where Beta Gray had slapped her that morning.
Her chest still ached from the broken bond.
Her ribs complained with every breath.
Her phone vibrated.
She didn't have to look to know the names flashing there: Michael.
Father.
Unknown numbers that would be elders or reporters or wolves who suddenly remembered her
number.
Sylvia slipped the phone into her coat pocket without checking it.
Her wolf trotted beside her, bruised but steady.
We're really done
