The Packhouse felt braced for impact before anything even happened—like the walls were holding their breath.
Wolves rushed through the green-and-gold corridors with trays of crystal and bottles of wine like they were carrying sacred artifacts, not alcohol. Guards stood in silver-detailed armour so polished the chandeliers hit them like sunbursts. Even the air felt thick, charged, humming under my skin. The wards—woven through the bones of the house eighteen years ago after the war—shivered faintly, as if tuning themselves.
Everyone knew why.
The Supreme Alphas were arriving today. And with them, the Lycan Triplet Kings—Tristan, Lucas, and Hayden—the rulers of Lycandra and Lycan’Dra, the only men my Alphas spoke of with respect and something sharper beneath it. Old rivalry. Older resentm
