"Did you let that Lawson cur scent-mark your trail all the way to my gates?" Hudson’s voice was a low, dangerous vibration.

Avery shook her head frantically. Her fingers flew, weaving the explanation: the mountain passes were empty of sentries, the mist was rising, and Grant had simply intercepted her before the forest predators did.

She bit her lip, realizing her silent plea sounded like an accusation—that he had abandoned his mate in a territory where only the strong survived. She shifted her weight, trying to sign that the wine incident had been a farce, a trap set by Madison’s own hand.

But halfway through the gesture, her hands went...