Three wolves burst through in the space of one breath, black fur, yellow eyes, Silvermoon scouts. Ella’s men. They shifted mid-leap, landing on two legs with steel in their hands.

Alaric moved before Hazel could blink.

He was unarmed. Shirtless. Bare feet on frozen floor. Didn’t matter. He caught the first scout by the throat and slammed him into the wall. Wood cracked. The wolf choked, claws scraping uselessly at Alaric’s forearm.

“You should’ve stayed in the packhouse,” Alaric growled. His voice wasn’t his own, low, layered with his wolf. “You should’ve remembered who I am.”

The second scout lunged. Alaric twisted, using the first man as a shield. The...