“Say it," Garran murmured.
Wilson looked from the Snowstorm wolves flanking the door to Veronica sitting straight at the table, mask set aside, eyes like winter glass. Andrew stood at the wall, arms folded, unreadable.
“I was wrong," Wilson said again, louder this time. “And I will not touch you again."
“Accepted," Garran said, calm as a judge. “Next item: the thing that bleeds your border."
“Rogues," Andrew said. “Night raids. They test, peel, repeat. We need bodies at the ridge, discipline on the south line, and someone mean on the parley path."
“You asked for help," Garran replied. “Snowstorm answers. But we don't donate ourselves into other people's holes."
“What's your price?" Wilson asked, jaw set.
Veronica slid a paper across the table—neat, ruthless.
“Alpha Lucas's terms,"
