I stood as the scent of the crowd shifted, the heavy musk of anticipation and the sharp tang of hair-lacquer filling the hall. In my grip, the silver-edged parchment felt like a blade. I moved toward the center of the dais with a fluid, predatory grace, ensuring my path stayed wide of Mark Whitaker.
Below me sat a sea of the most elite wolves in the territory, the prime specimens of the Nova Star Agency and beyond. Scanning the ranks, I knew my own journey from exile had only just begun. Near the front, Riley Knox sat with her chin high, her scent radiating a sickly-sweet arrogance. I could practically hear her thoughts: I will snatch that silver trophy from the hands of the woman I’ve spent years trying to bury. Once that weight is in my palm, my ascent to the High Alphas is guaranteed.
