The Council of Elders does not care about romance or the fact that Silas and I just shared a kiss that probably melted a few nearby glaciers. They care about optics. And apparently, the optics of the Dawn Hunt were less "majestic ritual" and more "two shirtless men fighting in the mud while a human woman yelled at them."
We are back at the estate, but the atmosphere is far from domestic. Marcus, the Lead Elder, is sitting in Silas’s study, looking at us with the kind of disappointment usually reserved for people who double-park in a fire zone.
"The Pack is restless, Silas," Marcus says, his voice like sandpaper. "There are rumors that you are compromised. That this human has turned your brain to mush. We need proof of the bond’s strength. A physical calibration."
"A calibration?" I ask,
