The Cry of a Lycan
Nestled within its velvet contour was a golden ring, polished flawlessly.
I held out my hand, which was concealed with a black leather glove, and he slid the ring onto my finger.
Perfect fit.
I curled my fingers into a fist, studying the way the ring settled against my skin.
The metal caught the light, its surface engraved with the sigil of the pack, an ancient wolf with its fangs bared out.
This wasn't just any ring; it was an emblem of authority, a mantle for the Alpha of Silverstone pack.
My fingers curled slowly, testing the weight of it. For a moment, the irritation eased, replaced by something colder.
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