Chapter 8: The Old Alpha at the Gate

We dressed fast, pulling on clothes in the dark.

I pulled on jeans and Ash's flannel, with the collar open over the fresh mark on my shoulder.

I did not button it.

Ash laced his boots in the dark, and he never took his eyes off the window.

"How many?" I asked.

"A hundred. Maybe more."

"Are they here to kill you?"

"They're here to be seen," Ash said. "My father likes an audience."

We opened the door together.

The yard was full of firelight.

Northlake wolves stood in a wide ring around the cabin with torches in their fists, men and women in dark jackets, perfectly silent.

At the front, in a camel coat, stood a tall old man with Ash's jaw and none of his warmth.

Rowan was at his shoulder.

Anders hung a step behind both of them, with his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the ground.

"Alpha Thorsen," Ash said, flat.

"My disgrace," the old man said pleasantly. "You look well. You've put on weight in exile."

A few of the wolves laughed.

It was the kind of laugh you learn to give when the man in the coat is watching.

"You came a long way for a cabin," Ash said.

"I came for what's in it."

The old Alpha's gaze traveled up and down me, slow.

It stopped on the open collar and the crescent already healing silver on my shoulder.

His mouth thinned.

"So you've been busy tonight."

"I've been busy making a choice," I said. "I'm Ash's mate. I'm marked. I'm not Rowan's."

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