He did. The first week he had five. The second, twelve. By the end of the month, twenty-two wolves ran under his command—strong, quiet, attentive. It wasn’t glamorous work. It was the kind that saves packs when glamour fails.
We watched him, because we were already watching everyone. What we saw hardened into an answer.
Gunter came to me with it a week later, leaning against the kitchen counter while I tried to convince myself that pickles and chocolate together could possibly be a good idea.
“Gamma,” he said.
I snorted. “For who, exactly?”
He stared at me, unamused. “For Gage.”
I looked at the ceiling and said a few words my mother wouldn’t have approved of. “You’re right,” I admitted. “And you know it’s going to blow up ten different conversations.”
“Good,” he said. “Let it.”
We
