Five years later.

The pack house was chaos—the good kind of chaos, the kind that came from too many wolves in too small a space, from laughter and arguments and the simple mess of living. Children ran through the corridors, their shouts echoing off the stone walls. Warriors clomped through the great hall in their muddy boots, tracking dirt across the floors that the omegas would complain about later. And in the kitchen, the cooks were preparing a feast large enough to feed an army.

Because tonight, we were celebrating.

Trey was ten years old today—double digits, as he kept reminding everyone who would listen. He had grown so much...