The hallway of the pack's main house was silent when Mila pushed open the door to Luara's office. The familiar scent of paper, ink, and waxed wood filled the air, along with the subtle memory of the Alpha herself—a mixture of jasmine and restrained strength. Mila had always admired the way Luara kept that space impeccable, with neat stacks of reports and the pack's crest engraved in gold on each folder.

She had come just to pick up some documents, nothing more. Luara would be working ...