The atmosphere of the banquet hall was a raw summary of Alberta's wilderness. Upon the long oak table lay meats left nearly raw to suit the lupine palate, dark wines served in massive chalices, and the boisterous laughter of pack members. At the head of the table sat Varg's uncle, the old and imposing Alpha Samuel. His gaze lingered on me, sitting silently like a shadow at the far end of the table.
That evening, I had refused to carry anything belonging to Alberta.
I was wrapped in Chloe's old, soft wool sweater; on my wrist was the delicate stone bracelet Melanie had given me, and on my right hand was the snow glove that carried the warmth of Dominic, my beautiful knight.
These pieces were my armor.
Varg ignored me, not letting his gaze touch me for even a second; yet, my presence ached like an unbranded wound for everyone in the hall. Hearing the whispers caused a hum in my ears, like a hairdryer running constantly.
