DAVE
Alpha Supreme
The pack meeting hall reeks of testosterone and tradition, a combination that makes my wolf bare teeth beneath carefully controlled skin. Three hundred people fill the space—men in the front rows like they own the oxygen, women relegated to the back with downcast eyes and careful postures. Children peek from behind their mothers' skirts, curiosity warring with trained caution.
"This should be fun," Kat murmurs beside me, her voice pitched low enough that only I catch it. The honey-gold of her eyes carries challenge and heat in equal measure, making my blood sing despite the hostility radiating from our audience.
She's dressed for war in her own way—fitted jeans that showcase legs I've dreamed about, boots that could double as weapons, and a tank top that reveals the
