Camille

The field is still damp with morning dew, blades of grass brushing against my boots as I stride across the expanse where the enforcers gather. Their voices—low, clipped, focused—carry easily in the cool air. They’re sparring, checking weapons, doing the monotonous tasks that keep the pack’s backbone sharp.

But their scouts should’ve been back an hour ago.

I find Rhys first. Hard to miss the bastard. He stands like a mountain—tall, broad, with dark hair that the breeze can’t seem to ruffle and those storm-grey eyes that track everything. Right now, he’s facing two enforcers who shift uneasily under his stare.

When he sees me, he dismisses them with...