Alexander's POV

The witch's cottage smells like burning sage and something older—something that makes my wolf uneasy.

Brittany sits across from me, hands clenched in her lap, eyes red-rimmed from crying. She hasn't stopped shaking since Jack called.

Theodore is missing.

My son is missing.

The witch moves between us, her silver hair catching candlelight as she prepares the ritual. A silver bowl sits on the low table, gleaming in the dim light. Water fills it to ...