Morning came slowly to the pack house.
Not with alarm clocks or city noise, but with the low hum of life settling into itself—the creak of old wood warming, the distant clang of cookware from the kitchen, the muted thud of footsteps echoing through halls worn smooth by generations of wolves. The scent of coffee drifted upward, rich and grounding, layered beneath pine and cold air that never quite left the mountain.
Holly woke to warmth.
Not the sharp, startling kind—but a steady presence at her back, solid and immovable, as though the world had decided she deserved a moment of rest.
She lay still for several seconds, breathing quietly, letting herself catalog the sensations without panic. The mattress dipped slightly behind her. A slow, even heartbeat pressed against her spine. Heat se
