Author's pov:
The east wing of the Crest pack house was quiet long before midnight. The guards rotated on a schedule that Robert had memorized before he even closed his eyes, counting the intervals between footsteps in the corridor outside his door.
He had not slept. He had no intention of sleeping, especially since he knew he had a task.
He lay on top of the covers fully dressed, staring at the ceiling with his hands folded across his chest, his fingers kept tapping on the bed, no doubt that he was counting out time.
Exile had stripped a lot of things from him. Comfort, status, everything he had once thought was his by right.
But it had also taught him things that the pack house never could have. How to move without sound.
How to breathe without drawing attention, how to make himse
