IVY BLACKWOOD
When the pack house finally came into view, after an hour of driving, a suffocating silence blanketed the car.
Then—
A scream.
Piercing. Gut-wrenching.
Female.
“Elizabeth,” Connor growled.
He didn’t wait.
He was out of the car before the others registered movement, his legs flying toward the front doors, already mindlinking his beta.
Status?
‘It’s Elizabeth, came the quick reply. She’s inside. It’s chaotic.’
The moment he stepped into the living room, he stopped dead in his tracks.
The scene before him didn’t feel real.
Elizabeth was on her knees, her husband, Tom, crumpled beside her. Both of them were crying. Not weeping. Not sniffling.
Sobbing.
The kind that came from the soul.
Ivy’s hair was disheveled, her eyes wide and confused, peeking from behind the older woman’s back as if unsure whether she should run or attack.
Elizabeth reached toward her, wailing, “Move! I want to see my baby! My child, the one I gave birth to with this body! Move, you fat cow—”
“¡Cállate
