(Siena POV)
Evening settles over the charity headquarters like a velvet blanket, transforming the utilitarian space into something almost magical.
Outside, raindrops begin their gentle percussion against the roof tiles, their rhythm soothing despite the tension knotting my shoulders.
The scent of an approaching storm mingles with the reassuring smell of old books and dried herbs, which defines this space—my space, the one place in pack territory that feels truly mine, untainted by power struggles and politics.
My wolf stirs restlessly beneath my skin, responding to approaching footsteps long before the gentle knock at the door registers in my consciousness.
The scent reaches me simultaneously—winter pine and frost, entirely incongruous with the summer warmth yet unmi
