YN'S

the pack, to avoid him. My ankle was healing, but my heart remained a numb, cold thing in my chest. I'd successfully blocked Dorian from my side of t

a constant presence. She knew I'd retreated,

s journal, when my phone buzzed on the desk. I ignored it. It was probably just another concerned mes

, I picked it up. It wasn't a call. It was a series of messages from

lly taken, artfully lit photo of a slice of chocolate cake

his is your favorite. Devil's Food ca

rst and only "date" three years ago, a stilted, formal dinner where I'd talked nerv

was in the formal dining room of the pack house, a room I hadn't set foot in for months. Behind her, the table

, candles blazing. And sitting next to the cake, gleaming

arved for him before he died. He had told me once, in a rare moment of vulnerability, that it was h

et her use it as a prop f

was looking at her, and she had her hand on his arm, leaning into him. The cake and the wooden wolf wer

choice of word. A reminder of hi

d strike. A declaration of war. She took something deeply personal to me-a memory, a favorite thing-and twisted it

a tidal wave of agony so profound it stole my breath. My inner wolf, which had been whimpering in a cor

g soul together. It wasn't enough to take his time, his affection, his smile. She had to grind my face into the dirt

th alarm. "Evie! What is it? I felt that th

pointed a trembling finge

rom confusion to disbelief, then to pu

would not be a victim in my own story. I would not be a ghost in my own life. This bond, this cursed chain that lin

calm. "Find me the pack laws. Fin