The night was hell.
Blaze wouldn’t stop pacing—claws raking bone, breath hot at the back of my throat, a low, relentless snarl that shredded the council chamber into useless noise. Toasts, oaths, rehearsed smiles—none of it landed. Not when my wolf kept drilling one brutal imperative into my skull:
Find her.
The command cracked like a whip. My fingers curled against the moonstone table, the crescent inlay biting my knuckles. Above us, vaulted ribs older than our bloodline shimmered with soft lunar runes. Under the chandeliers, they pulsed in a slow silver heartbeat—wolf wards braided over fae countersigils, a ceremonial lattice designed to keep dominance from detonating into c*****e. Even the incense burned sharp—wolfsbane and ironwood—“purifying intent,” a reminder that nothing said he
