Scarred shifters, all in wolf form, a dozen rogue wolves, at least, surrounded the clearing, their bodies tense. They smelled of blood, earth, and danger.
One of them, a massive, grizzled wolf with a jagged scar running down his cheek, stepped forward. “Castian,” he called out with the kind of familiarity that spoke of shared hardships and mutual respect earned through blood and sacrifice, “why bring a pack wolf here?” he asked, but it sounded more like an accusation.
Castian crossed his arms, his gaze fixed on the shivering woman who was pulling his cloak tighter around her shoulders. “Because she’s my mate,” he replied nonchalantly, as if commenting on the weather and not carrying out an action that could spell capture or death for everyone standing around him and the drenched she-wolf
