Ronan waved his hand, already done with me. "Mother, Father—throw her out of the den. Bar the gates behind her."
The Elder pair closed in on me, their hostility thick as smoke in the air. I could smell the aggression rolling off them in waves—sharp, metallic, unmistakable.
The Pack Patriarch yanked open the heavy oak doors of the longhouse. Bitter winter wind howled through the entryway, carrying ice and the scent of frozen pines.
The Matriarch didn't hesitate. "Out you go. You have no place in this den."
"Matriarch Rowena, that fur-lined cloak you're wearing—I traded three moon-cycles of restoration work for it. Premium winter pelts from the northern territories."
Her gaze dropped for just a heartbeat before she shot back, "That was purchased with my son's hunting grounds and resources."
Raven's voice drifted from behind her, soft and deliberate, her scent curling through the air like honeyed poison. "Don't worry. I'll provide for you too. Finer things. More valuable."
The old she-wolf's face split into a triumphant smile, her teeth glinting in the firelight.
"You heard her. Now get out. I have a daughter by bond—a true one—and she's about to give me a grandpup."