The Hunt and the Hunted

The morning mist clung to the pack like a shroud, thick and cloying, turning every breath into a labored gasp. Zelda stood at the edge of the clearing, her emerald gown traded for fitted leather hunting gear—black, supple, hugging every curve like a second skin. The pack milled around her, wolves in human form, their eyes darting with suspicion. Grayson’s collapse last night had cracked the foundation of their trust; whispers of poison and rogues slithered through the crowd like venom.

Grayson strode to the center, his presence a storm cloud. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the taut lines of his chest,...