It had been three days.

Three days since Freya vanished like smoke beneath the full moon sky.

Alpha Logan stood at the balcony of the west wing, his arms folded tight across his chest, and eyes burning holes into the distant tree line. The evening wind howled through the trees, but it brought no answers, no familiar scent of lilac and wild earth—Freya’s scent. He had been patient. At first.

But now? Now he was anything but calm.

Footsteps echoed behind him. He didn’t need to turn to ...