The Dark Moon packhouse was a tomb of stone and shadow, its halls reeking of damp earth, blood, and the acrid bite of dark-witch incense. Harley limped through the iron gates, his body a map of pain—cracked ribs grinding with every breath, blood crusting his split lip, one eye swollen shut. This was the price for his failure, the council meetingth at the royal packhouse had been a disaster, his accusations against Torren was a risky exposure, and Thorne’s insinuations about Lilith’s bond crumbling under her fiery rebuttal. The packs had rallied behind the priestess, their unity a blade at his throat. As soon as he set foot inside the Dark Moon Pack he was ambushed by vampires, signs that the vampire lord had heard of his failed mission. Still, he knew worse awaited him during his report.
