Ronan
The council room reeks of restless wolves.
Maps sprawl across the table, weighted by daggers, red lines marking supply corridors and border skirmishes. The lanterns sway in the draft, shadows shifting over faces I’ve known for years.
My lieutenants, my enforcers, my pack.
I should be listening as Mara lists off smuggling tallies from the southern route, but my wolf paces under my skin restlessly.
Every sound fades under the memory of Eli’s breathless moan, the tremor of his thighs, the sweet, sharp scent of his release.
“Ronan.” Mara’s voice snaps me back. Her braid swings over her shoulder as she leans forward, finger stabbing at a marked section on the map. “We’ve lost three runners to Redmaw this month. If you don’t push back, they’ll choke us out of the southern route.”
“
