The weather outside the Silver Creek meeting lodge mirrored the storm brewing within. Rain lashed against the windows, a relentless drumming that seeped into the silence between raised voices. The great room, usually filled with the warm scent of pine and community, was thick with tension and the damp chill of distrust.
Aria sat at the head of the heavy oak table, her posture deceptively calm. She'd faced down ancient vampires and government agents, but this—the discontent in the eyes of her own pack—felt like a different kind of fight. A colder one.
