THE COLD WOLF'S MATE
The morning sun hung low, warm on my shoulders as I walked along the stone path toward the stream behind the packhouse.
Kael had gone ahead earlier, promising to meet me there. I could already hear him before I saw him, his voice low and rough with amusement as Milo argued with Storm about something that clearly didn’t matter.
“You can’t teach pups to spar by bribing them with honeycakes,” Storm said, exasperated.
“Why not?” Milo countered. “It worked on me when I was six.”
“That explains a lot,” Kael muttered, and I heard the splash of water, then Milo’s indignant yelp as someone (I’d bet my life it was Kael) pushed him into the shallow part of the stream.
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