The howl that echoed across the Hollywood Hills at 3 AM wasn't meant for human ears.
It was the ancient call that had summoned werewolf packs for a thousand years—the Alpha's cry for unity in the face of extinction. Every werewolf within fifty miles felt it in their bones, a genetic imperative that overrode territory disputes and pack politics.
By dawn, they were coming.
Alexander stood on the stone terrace of Kane Estate, watching the procession of vehicles wind up the mountain road. Motorcycles and SUVs, pickup trucks and luxury sedans, even a few runners who'd shifted to wolf form and covered the distance on four legs. Representatives from seventeen different territories, some of whom hadn't spoken to each other in decades.
"Impressive turnout," Marcus said, joining him at the railing. "When's the last time this many Alphas were in the same place?"
