BIANCA
The forest clearing was quiet that morning—too quiet. Even the birds seemed to have abandoned their songs. I pulled my worn jacket tighter around my shoulders, scanning the tree line with nervous eyes.
This was rogue territory, where I'd lived since I was old enough to hunt. I knew every sound these woods should make. Today, they were holding their breath.
A twig snapped behind me.
I whirled around, claws automatically extending from my fingertips—the defensive instinct of someone who'd spent a lifetime being hunted.
"Who's there?" I called, voice steadier than I felt.
A figure emerged from the mist—tall, broad-shouldered, with the confident stride of an Alpha. Not my father's heavy footfall or the shuffling gait of the other rogues. This was someone new.
Someone dangerous.
My wolf stirred inside me, suddenly alert in a way I'd never felt before. The stranger stepped fully into the clearing, and I caught my breath.