The phone screen stayed dark. Avery’s thumb hovered over the glass, waiting for a signal, a ping—anything from the Alpha. The Silver Ridge High-Hall was a tomb of cold granite, and she was just a ghost haunting the lobby.

The heavy iron valves of the private lift groaned open. Hudson stepped out. He wasn't alone. Madison Clarke was draped over his arm like a trophy pelt, her fingers curled into the expensive wool of his cloak.

Hudson halted. His golden eyes narrowed as they landed on Avery. "What are you doing here?" His voice was a low-frequency vibration, vibrating with a jagged edge of confusion.

The receptionist, realizing she’d been...