Long tables lined the room, heavy with platters of roasted meat, fresh bread, and steaming vegetables. Alphas sat at the head table, their Betas flanking them. Omegas moved between the tables, refilling cups and replacing empty dishes with full ones.

The kitchens were a warren of heat and noise. Cooks barked orders. Pots clattered. Knives chopped in rhythm against worn wooden boards.

And in the center of it all, you lifted a tray heavy with glazed venison, your arms already aching from hours of unbroken work.

You adjusted your grip on the tray and pushed through the kitchen door into the great hall.

The noise hit you first. Laughter. Conversations. The clink of glasses.

Then the scent.

Something dark and vast and ancient unfurled in your chest, so sudden that your knees nearly buckled. Your wolf stirred for the first time in years, pressing against your ribs like a creature waking from a long sleep.

Across the hall, a man rose from his seat at the head table.

He was enormous. Broad-shouldered, dark-haired, his jaw sharp beneath a neatly trimmed beard. His eyes—steel gray and unblinking—were fixed directly on you.

The entire hall went quiet.

Grayson Thorne began walking toward you.