Keith

Xavior’s name pops onto the screen before the phone even finishes vibrating. I snatch it up on the first ring, heart thudding in my throat. Behind me, Father and Alpha Clinton sit like carved stone—silent, waiting, judging every breath I take.

“Keith,” Xavior’s tone is clipped, urgent. “They responded.”

My pulse sharpens. Our chance. Or a noose.

“What did they say?” I stand without realizing it, muscles coiled.

“They’ve agreed,” he says, and I hear the strain in his voice. “But they have conditions. They want to meet you. Face to face.”

A spark ignites in my chest. My wolf surges upward through my ribs, a hot coil of...