CASSANDRA
The numbers weren’t adding up, and Father was livid.
I sat stiffly at the table in the packhouse’s formal office, a fan of expense reports and ledgers laid out in front of me like a criminal record. My criminal record, apparently.
“You bought what?” he barked, his voice bouncing off the walls.
“A mare,” I said evenly, smoothing my palm across the crease in my blouse. “Moon-blessed. Champion lineage. For the charity auction—”
“For what auction?” he snapped, stabbing a thick finger at the figure circled in red at the bottom of the page. “You spent more on saddle fittings than we did training new warriors. Are we running a pack or a stable?”
I bit the inside of my cheek. Hard. I’d learned long ago not to take the bait too quickly.
He leaned across the table, eyes narrowed. “Y
