(DYLAN'S POV)
I leaned back against the couch, dragging a hand down my face, and let the memories flood in. Maximum settled, listening like he always did when the past called.
FLASHBACK— DYLAN AND ROLAND
****
It was almost exactly a hundred years ago, back in 1926. The Grand Werewolf Summit in Amsterdam.
Hell, if I close my eyes, I can still remember the smell of that place. Polished wood soaked with age. Damp stone walls. Candle wax melting slow under the heat of chandeliers. Roasted meat turning over open flames somewhere deeper in the hall. And beneath all of it—the scent every wolf noticed first—territorial tension. Thick. Bitter. Sharp enough to taste.
North American packs weren't respected back then. Not really. To the old European bloodlines, we were still outsiders. Young packs from across the ocean pretending we belonged at the same table as wolves whose family names stretched back a thousand years. They looked at us like we were mutts wearing crowns.
