Draven's pov
A week, seven days since Allene vanished.
Seven nights of waking to the phantom echo of her scent in my sheets and the cold realization that she wasn’t there.
The pack had learned to move carefully around me. Voices lowered when I entered rooms. Eyes dropped. Conversations died mid-sentence. They were waiting for me to snap.
Maybe I already had.
Two days ago, Silverfang sent their declaration.
Return our Luna.
Or prepare for war.
I remembered every word because I had read it so many times the ink might as well have burned itself into my skull. The parchment still sat in my inner jacket pocket, creased and worn from being unfolded, reread, and crushed in my fist.
War didn’t matter.
Politics didn’t matter.
Only Allene did.
I stood in the compound yard, helmet dangli
