The Werewolf's Bride
Kael stepped in front of her, massive, protective, lethal.
The scent grew stronger.
Then a twig snapped.
From the shadows stepped a lone wolf, smaller, gray-furred, eyes glowing unnatural amber.
It wasn’t pack.
It wasn’t wild.
It was something else entirely.
A spy.
A harbinger.
And on its flank, burned into the fur like a brand, was a symbol Elara recognized from the old tapestries in the manor...
A broken chain wrapped around a bleeding moon.
The mark of the northern packs.
The mark of war.