The grove pulsed with chaos, torches spitting flames that danced wild across the warriors' faces. Thorne's shout still hung in the air, his body coiled like a spring ready to snap, knife glinting in his fist. The pack pressed closer, growls rumbling low, their eyes flicking between him and me, doubt cracking the trust I'd built over years. My skin still slick with oil, heart slamming against my ribs, I grabbed Drake's hand—rough, callused, grounding me in the storm. His fingers squeezed back, ...