The grove was still smoking when Alfred found her.

Ash clung to the air like ghosts, curling in faint silver tendrils that caught the moonlight. The earth was torn where the ritual circle had burned through the grass, still warm beneath his boots. All around him, the pack moved in silence—no cheers, no voices, only the low growl of wind through the trees.

“Bella,” he called, his voice hoarse.

No answer.

He pushed past the fallen stones, the ruined altar, the scent of charred roots and ...