The werewolf pack house was nothing like Ravencrest Manor's Gothic elegance. The main hall smelled of smoke, blood, and wild things barely contained.
Irene and Valda were thrown to their knees before a raised dais where Alpha Zimion sat like a king on his throne. He was massive, easily seven feet tall, with silver hair despite appearing only middle-aged. Scars covered his bare arms, each one a testament to battles won. His eyes—one brown, one milky white from an old injury swept over them with calculating intelligence.
"Explain," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the floor.
"Alpha Zimion," the scarred werewolf who'd captured them bowed his head respectfully. "We found these two on our territory, stealing from our strawberry patch. The blonde one claims to be Lord Yin's wife."
Zimion's intact eye focused on Irene with laser precision. "Is this true?"
