LOGAN
The forest didn’t have a name on any map. Not one you’d find in any official pack ledger, at least. But every wolf who grew up near the Blightwood knew better than to say its name out loud.
That was the kind of place it was.
My tires crunched over brittle gravel, the road narrowing until the trees were practically scraping the sides of the car. I spotted her taillights ahead—dim red orbs flickering in the dark like a predator's eyes.
Cassandra had already arrived. Of course she had. She was standing beside her car when I pulled in, like some gothic statue summoned from the mist.
I killed the engine and stepped out. The cold air hit me like a slap, thick with the scent of moss and distant rot. This wasn’t any wolf’s territory.
Not anymore. This was beyond boundaries now—a jagg
