The moon hung above, its silver shaft over the territory of the Alpha. The air was sharp, rushing through the trees, so leaves shook as if sharing secrets. Damien sat at the Alpha packhouse war table, his eyes tracing the paper laid out before him. His fingers tracing the edge of the parchment, his mind on strategies.
Malcolm couldn't do anything. Damien could feel it in his bones. But no assault at any time. His scouts reported activity, but no fighting. It was as if the enemy was holding back, waiting for something.
The notion made his wolf rage to a froth.
"He's planning," his wolf snarled. "Certainly he is," Damien muttered to himself, his brows furrowed. A knock on the door shattered him from his thoughts.
"Come in," he snarled. The door creaked open, and Beta Ryder stood in the
