The forest felt wrong—quiet in a way that made your skin crawl.
Lyra’s breath sounded loud, even to her own ears, as she ran. Every inhale left her chest raw, and every step jolted her already-bruised ribs, but she wouldn’t slow down. Moonlight spilled through the tall trees, throwing stretched silver shadows over the undergrowth. Branches tore at her arms. Still, she pressed deeper into the woods.
Inside, her wolf stirred—uneasy, tense. Yeah, danger was close.
Faint footsteps followed her, crunching leaves and twigs. Still chasing.
She could’ve sworn she’d lost them back at the broken part of the fence when she slipped out of the pack compound. She realized then: rogues don’t give up. Not ever. And tonight, she was the prize.
Her heart banged in her chest. Why? Why the hell was every
