Keith

The clearing fills the way a lung fills with air—slow at first, then all at once. Tessa arrives with her wolves fanning out behind her, shoulders squared, eyes sharp. The Lycan chieftains follow, heavy steps and heavier presence, their warriors and enforcers moving with the kind of discipline that only comes from generations of surviving in the margins. Voices overlap. Names are exchanged. Hands clasp forearms. Old friends find each other and cling for a second longer than necessary before pulling apart.

The goodbyes are quieter.

A warrior kneels to a child’s height, pressing his forehead to hers. An enforcer kisses his mate’s knuckles and promises to return. The...