Nicholas Shadowfell had called this summit.
He'd just finished twelve hundred miles. His men were dehydrated, angry as hell, and one small problem away from losing their collective shit.
But they made damn sure to enter Greyhall Crossing like the final boss rolling up with his endgame squad, and every Alpha present stared at the formation like they were witnessing the second coming.
He came prepared for politics and the standard dick-measuring that occurred during every Alpha get-together since the beginning of wolf time.
He was not prepared for this.
The doors parted and hundreds of blades flashed in the torchlight, turning the entire chamber into a silverware drawer mid-earthquake.
His pack flowed in behind him and then locked up as one.
Nicholas's eyes tracked across the chamber like a general reading a war zone, left to right, hunting the origin of the mess. There was always a center that explained the entire shitshow.
Found it.
