Outside, Oakhaven was a blur of gray rain and misery. Inside, it was hermetically sealed, smelling of expensive leather and that omnipresent, woodsy scent of the Alpha. The heater was blasting, but I was still shivering, my teeth chattering in a rhythm I couldn't control.
We didn't speak for the twenty-minute drive back to the Ironwood territory. Guilermo drove with one hand on the wheel, his knuckles white, his jaw set in a line of granite. I sat in the passenger seat, curled in on myself, trying to keep my soul from leaking out of the cracks Sibal had left in my aura.
When we pulled up to the Pack House, the rain was coming down in sheets.
"I’m taking you to the East Wing," Guilermo said, cutting the engine. "It’s quieter. No Ibbie. No patrols."
"I have to work," I whispered, clutchi
