GRAY
The knock comes at three in the morning—soft, desperate, the kind that carries death in its rhythm. Three taps, pause, two more. A pattern that speaks of fear barely held in check. I'm at the door before my brothers fully wake, gun drawn but held low, safety off. Through the peephole, two figures support a third between them, and my wolf recognizes that scent before my conscious mind processes it.
Samira. But wrong. Changed. The scent of silver fire that usually clings to her is almost gone, replaced by fever-sweet sickness and the particular emptiness that comes when a wolf dies inside its host.
I wrench the door open to find old Rosie, the omega who's served this pack longer than I've been alive, and a young male omega with beauty that would fetch catastrophic prices at tomorrow'
