CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The scent of roasting dinner mingles with the smoky tendrils rising from the crackling campfire. The Ghost Moon pack, with their eerie harmonious howls resonating through the forest, settles for the night. I sit cross-legged, my back against a gnarled tree trunk, watching them. They move with an innate grace that speaks of power—a stark contrast to my small frame and my lack of it.
"Grace," a voice, smooth as river stones yet laced with a commanding edge, breaks through the quiet after they've all found their spots around the fire. Jackson stands before me, his silhouette haloed by the flickering flames. "We need to talk."
My name on his lips feels like a caress and a chain all at once. I nod, swallowing the lump of apprehension lodged in my throat. He gestures away
