Amelia’s POV
The estate glowed under the rising moon.
Torches ringed the wide lawn behind the house, their flames dancing gold against the dark. Long tables groaned with food—roasted venison, fresh bread still warm from the ovens, platters of roasted vegetables, bowls of berries the triplets had picked that afternoon. A bonfire roared in the center of the clearing, sparks spiraling upward like tiny stars. Pack members sprawled on blankets, pups tumbling in wolf form, adults shifting between laughter and low, contented growls. Music drifted from a portable speaker—soft acoustic guitar, old pack songs, nothing too loud. Just enough to fill the night without drowning the moon.
It wasn’t a grand ceremony. No speeches. No banners. Just family. Pack. Home.
The triplets were the center of it
