THE PROWL OF THE ICE
"Your father, Edward, was too soft. And Ronan? He’s a lapdog in a hockey jersey. The territory deserves someone who isn't afraid to let the wild back in."
"By murdering pack members?" I stepped back, my cold fingertips grazing the edge of the granite counter. "That’s not evolution, Caleb. That’s a virus."
"The copper virus can repair itself and evolve into a new strain, Jack. I learned that from watching you," he sneered. "If a virus can adapt to survive, why can't we?"
"Because we aren't pathogens," I snapped.
Before he could respond, the heavy reinforced door of the lab was kicked open. A blur of black and gold fur erupted into the room—Ronan.
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