The sun had barely crested the horizon when the first challenger arrived.
A black SUV roared up the dirt road to the Crescent Moon pack house, tires spitting gravel like accusations. The vehicle screeched to a halt, doors slamming in unison. Four warriors stepped out first—tall, broad-shouldered, clad in dark tactical gear—followed by him.
Alpha Damian Blackthorn of the Iron Fang Pack.
He moved like a storm contained in human skin: six-foot-four, black hair swept back from a sharp face, eyes the color of winter steel. Power rolled off him in waves, thick enough to choke the air. The Crescent Moon wolves instinctively lowered their gazes, even Alpha Marcus stiffened. Damian was twenty-eight, already legendary—united three fractured packs under his banner through sheer dominance and ruthl
