All Chapters of The Wolf's Call (Book 1): Chapter 61 - Chapter 67

The meeting room is a storm of frantic, overlapping voices when I walk in, exhausted but driven by a core of pure, desperate focus.Roman stands squarely at the center of the organized chaos, his deep voice carrying the undeniable weight of command, ordering every enforcer within sight. “I want every inch of Silver Lake searched. The woods, the tunnels, the hidden bunkers, and a hundred miles beyond the borders. I want Erica found, alive or dead. Bring me answers, not excuses.”The enforcers bow their heads instantly, already moving toward the doors. The air is heavy with urgency, fear, and the intense anxiety of a pack suddenly without its Alpha.I fold my arms tightly across my chest and lean against the sturdy doorframe, ignoring the exhaustion that wants to pull me to the floor. “When was the last time anyone actually saw her?”One of the younger, more honest enforcers—Eli, I remember his name is—steps forward nervously, avoiding my eyes. “Three days ago, Luna. We were patrolling

“Naomi, can you braid my hair into two long strands?” I ask, settling onto the cushioned stool before the ornate mirror, feigning a tired indifference. The light is soft, illuminating the subtle tension in the room.Leila looks up instantly from folding a meticulous stack of towels on the dresser, her loyalty shining through. “I can certainly help, Luna. I’ve had years of practice with my sisters.”I shake my head gently, maintaining the soft voice. “No, thank you, Leila. Naomi’s hands are somehow softer and gentler than yours. Or Beatrice’s.”And I need to be close to her...to see what I can sense from her energy. To see just how dark it is, and gauge what she's capable of.Beatrice snorts loudly from across the room, where she’s elbow-deep in my massive wardrobe, sorting garments for the next season. “That’s only because she’s lazy,” she mutters under her breath, tossing a velvet dress onto the bed with unnecessary force. “Her hands haven’t seen a single day’s worth of hard, hones

Malakai stretches his arms lazily over his head and grunts casually, as though we’re in the middle of a casual coffee meeting instead of a dark, soul-wrenching bargain concerning life and death.Then he turns his palms upward, holding them open. “Go on, Olivia,” he says, his voice mocking my hesitation. “Take them. The goods are yours.”I stare intently at his smooth, empty hands, my body coiled, but I don’t move a muscle. I half expect him to drop a handful of snakes or razor wire.He groans, the sound deeply exaggerated for theatrical effect. “Really, princess? I haven’t bothered to put teeth in my palms. Relax.” He reaches out unexpectedly and catches my right hand firmly before I can pull it back, his grip surprisingly tender for a second. “I absolutely won’t bite. Yet.”His touch is initially cold—cold like the bottom of a deep, forgotten lake—but his skin feels impossibly soft, almost silky. For a dangerous moment, the sheer contrast between his aura and his physical touch is co