The Northwood Lodge emerged from the mountain mist, perched precariously on a jagged ridge that overlooked a valley filled with ancient pines. It was a masterpiece of secluded luxury— the silence was absolute, and the social hierarchy was immovable.
As the tires of the car crunched to a final halt on the gravel driveway, the Silver resonance in Malcolm's blood felt like a physical weight. The cabin of the car was thick with the scent of his own pheromones, trapped within the wool coat he had forced upon the boy sitting beside him.
Before Marcus could even step out to open the door, the vibrant roar of a sports engine announced the arrival of the "Prince." Holino's cherry-red car drifted to a stop inches from the car's bumper. He didn't wait for the engine to cool; he vaulted over the driver-side door with the grace of an athlete and strode toward them, his eyes immediately seeking out the passenger window.
