POV: Daniel

The tether screamed before I heard her voice.

Raw pain ripped down my spine—bright, jagged, intimately familiar. Clara’s panic slammed through the bond so hard I nearly went to my knees. I was half a mile out when it hit, still running the ridge, blood thick on my claws from the last scout I’d gutted.

Then I felt him. 

Not one of the wolves. Older. Colder. The scent of burnt silver and pine oil. Rourke Ashveil. 

The bastard was supposed to be ...