The heavy iron doors of Silas’s private war council chamber slammed shut, cutting off the distant, terrified whispers of the pack still gathered in the Great Hall below.
The air in the room was thick with tension and the copper tang of blood. Silas stood by the narrow slit window, staring out at the dark, snow-covered mountains. He had wiped the worst of Marek’s blood from his face, but his knuckles were still raw, and his eyes remained a turbulent, dangerous shade of black.
"You cannot be serious, Alpha," Gunnar croaked. The scarred lieutenant was clutching his broken wrist, his face still pale from the psychological terror my gift had inflicted on him. "Taking a strike team into the Moon Ridge camp tonight is suicide. We are down a dozen warriors from the north gate blast, and the pack
