The man in the doorway was not what I expected.
He was older — mid-fifties, silver threading through dark hair, the kind of weathered face that had spent decades outdoors in cold air. Not large, by Alpha standards. Not imposing in the way that Darius was imposing, or Riven was imposing — that rolling, deliberate pressure of dominance that powerful wolves wore like a second skin. This man's authority was quieter. Deeper. The kind that doesn't need to announce itself because it's never been seriously questioned.
He held both hands slightly away from his body. The universal gesture: no weapon, no threat.
"Alpha Callum Greaves," Darius said, and the name meant something — I could feel it in the slight shift of everyone in the room. "Greaves Territory. Northern Washington."
"The same." Call
