“Oh! Hello, Mrs. Gable,” I said, the words tinged with a disappointment I desperately tried to mask with an awkward smile.

My pulse, which had quickened at the thought of Malcolm's arrival, now settled into a dull throb of letdown.

Mrs. Gable stood there on the porch, her silver hair pinned back in a neat bun that spoke of old-world propriety, even in our pack's more relaxed circles.

She was a Beta through and through sturdy, unyielding, with lines etched around her eyes from years of quiet observation and sharper-than-average senses that missed nothing.

In her gnarled hands, she clutched a thick, cream-colored envelope, sealed with an official wax stamp...