The phone kept ringing beside the dead man’s hand.
No one moved for a breath.
Elias lay on the gravel with his throat opened cleanly, Nightfang leather dark with blood, and Varak’s iron seal cooling in my palm. I knew that seal. Five years had not blurred it. Elder Varak had worn the same mark the night Ronan explained succession while another woman sat pregnant in my place. The old wolf had spoken of bloodline and duty as if I were not standing there, as if my body belonged to the pack before it belonged to me. Now his mark was clenched in a dead rider’s hand.
The phone rang again. Ronan reached for it.
I caught his wrist before his fingers touched the jacket. His skin was hot beneath my grip. Around us, Nightfall riders tightened their hands around weapons. Beyond the open gate, Nigh
