The convoy rolled out at first light, a steel serpent of armored SUVs and supply trucks snaking through the royal gates toward Crimson Moon territory. One hundred royal warriors rode in tight formation, silver spears glinting, UV rifles locked and loaded. Jackson and Lilith shared the lead vehicle, fingers still laced from the night before, the fresh mating marks on their necks pulsing like twin heartbeats. Lucas rode shotgun, eyes scanning the treeline; Marcus and Mia flanked them in the second truck, the gamma’s voice crackling over comms with last-minute security checks.
Every mile was a heartbeat of tension—Blaze’s hackles raised, Lirien’s ears pricked—until the crimson’s packhouse loomed—a sprawling fortress of red stone and oak, banners fluttering with the pack’s crescent emblem. A
