The packhouse was tearing itself apart.

Down in the damp, freezing dark of the servant quarters, Freya Vance sat perfectly still, listening to the symphony of panic she had orchestrated. The blaring security sirens cut through the stone walls, a shrieking, relentless wail that signaled the absolute

The silence in the grand hall was absolute, save for the low, rhythmic hum of the helicopters outside and the panicked breathing of the Ironcrest pack.

Freya looked up into Kade Blackridge’s silver eyes. She saw the storm brewing in them—the obsessive, devastating devotion that she had kept at arm

The rhythmic, deafening thud of the helicopter blades was the only sound in the cabin, a steady drumbeat that felt like the pulse of Freya’s newfound freedom. She sat nearest the reinforced window, staring down at the snow-covered expanse of the Ironcrest territory as it rapidly shrank into the dist