Axel exhales sharply. “There has to be something else they want.”
“There is,” I say, and my voice is steadier than I feel, “control.”
We break through the tree line as the packhouse comes into view, lights blazing against the dark, guards already repositioning as orders ripple outward, and the air is thick with fear and movement and shouted commands layered over the hum of the bond.
“Get her inside,” Atticus orders, not to me but to Axel, though his hand closes briefly around my wrist like he needs the contact to ground himself.
Axel nods once. “Straight to the center.”
We move fast, wolves parting around us as if the pack itself is opening a path, warriors peeling off toward the edges of the territory while others reinforce the packhouse, and every step closer makes the pressure in m
