We had been bound together for eight years, moving through pack life shoulder to shoulder. Yet somewhere along the way, whatever warmth had existed between us had gone cold as stone. Our bond, never formally sealed with a mark, had withered into something hollow. It felt less like a mating and more like a territorial arrangement. Just another transaction in the brutal game of pack politics.
The Den
By the time I arrived at the Thornecrest Pack's central den, the whispers had already begun.
The sprawling compound sat behind high stone walls reinforced with wolfsbane-laced iron. To outsiders it looked like a grand estate, but every corridor held enforcers disguised as attendants. Their sharp eyes, occasionally flashing amber, scanned constantly for threats. The scent of dominance hung heavy in every room, layered thick with Caspian's territorial markings. This was the heart of one of the most dangerous packs in the region.