JAYNAYAH

Three weeks later, the smell of blood was finally gone from my nose.

It had taken days of scrubbing, days of standing under scalding hot water until my skin turned raw, to get the phantom scent of Michael’s death off me. But eventually, the crisp pine and rich loam scent of the Rising Moon territory had replaced it.

I stood on the balcony of Mace’s room—our room—overlooking the sprawling pack lands below. It was dusk. The air was cooling rapidly, biting at my exposed arms, but I didn't shiver. The cold didn't bother me anymore. Not since I had learned to command a cold far deeper than winter.

Below,...