The letter arrived at the gate addressed to me.
Not to the Alpha King's mate. Not to the Ashveil heir, which was a designation that had begun circulating through the extended pack network with the speed of information that everyone finds significant. Just — Sera Blackwood. My name in handwriting I recognized before I understood why, the particular forward slant of someone who had learned to write quickly and never un-learned it.
Silver Creek pack's return address on the envelope.
I turned it over in my hands in the kitchen and felt the Read pulse with the low, clear recognition of something I had not expected to feel today. Not a threat. Not intent to harm.
Guilt.
Old guilt. The specific texture of it — not Theron's calculated variety, not the organized suppression. Something more hum
