Rowan Hayes led the charge. His boots echoed against the concrete as he shoved open the final door. The cage room.

Rows upon rows of iron bars. Some already hanging open, empty. Others filled with hollow eyes and trembling limbs. His warriors moved past him, coaxing the survivors out, their voices soft even though their hands were weapons.

Then he smelled it. Something sweet, buried beneath the grime. Under the rot and the blood and the decades of pain, there was a scent like warm honey and fresh rain. It stopped him mid-step.

Dark, matted hair. Ribs visible through torn fabric. A face turned away, hidden behind bony knees.

His wolf surged forward. Mine. Protect. Now.

The others scattered behind him. Shouts. Cries. The chaos of rescue.

But here, in the corner of this hell, the Alpha of the Silver Ridge Pack did the only thing that mattered. He waited.