EMMA
Rain didn't just fall in the French Alps; it tore at the earth, a cold, relentless assault that turned the narrow mountain passes into slick ribbons of black ice. We had switched from the jet to a rugged, armored SUV at a private strip in Lyon, and for the last three hours, the climb had been silent. Gabriel sat beside me, his hand a crushing weight over mine. He wasn't the man who had paced the London penthouse anymore. He was a statue of suppressed violence, his scent a mix of ozone, pine, and the metallic tang of an Alpha about to defend his throat.
The Silver Thread between us wasn't humming; it was screaming. It vibrated with the collective tension of the thousands of wolves currently scenting our approach.
"They can feel you," Gabriel muttered, his eyes fixed on the darkness
