Opal sat at the head of the long oak table in the packhouse's war room, Kael at her side, their hands clasped tightly under the table. She hadn't let go since the moment he brought her inside—since the forest, the chase, the glowing eyes.
The room smelled like cedarwood and old leather, the air thick with tension.
Around them, chairs were filled with the wolves she trusted most—and a few she wasn't sure she ever would.
On Kael's right sat Vesta and Halden, still in their hunting leathers, faces grim.
On Opal's left, Alpha Griffin stood with arms crossed, radiating cool command. Behind him, her brothers had arranged themselves like some chaotic, muscular security wall. Ash, Brooks, Ridge... and Forrest, who had already spun his chair around twice, upside down, and currently sat in it backwards like he was about to teach a motivational high school assembly.
