The night air was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, the forest whispering secrets only the wind could carry. The full moon hung heavy in the sky, casting silver light over the sprawling territory of the Crescent Moon Pack. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled—a lonely, mournful sound that faded into the endless stretch of trees.

Kieran Vale stood on the balcony of his packhouse, gripping the wooden railing so tightly that his knuckles turned white. His stormy blue eyes were fixed on the treetops, watching the way they swayed in the cool breeze. This land was supposed to be their fresh start, their new beginning, yet unease coiled around him like a serpent, tightening its hold with every passing second.

He wasn’t sure when the feeling had started—perhaps from the moment they arrived in Silverbrook Ridge, or maybe it had been creeping up on him for years, waiting for the right moment to sink its fangs into his mind. His pack was safe, settled, but something still felt wrong. Like a storm waiting to break.

His jaw tightened as his thoughts drifted back to the past. It had been two years since he had taken the title of Alpha, and yet the weight of it never seemed to lessen. His parents had ruled with wisdom and strength, their leadership unquestioned. But their reign had been cut short in a single, brutal night of bloodshed.

Kieran had been gone when it happened, away on a training mission with his warriors. By the time he returned, his mother and father were dead, the pack in disarray, and the traitors had vanished like ghosts. He had barely been able to hold his wolves together, and even now, the pack elders still viewed him as untested, unproven.

He exhaled sharply, forcing himself to push the memories aside. Dwelling on the past wouldn’t change anything. He had a pack to lead, enemies to hunt, and a future to secure.

And that meant choosing a mate.

His stomach twisted at the thought.

The elders had been relentless in their demands—mating with a strong, respectable she-wolf would solidify his rule and put an end to the whispers of doubt. They had even chosen a candidate for him. Lena Dorne, Ezekiel’s niece. She was beautiful, powerful, and politically advantageous.

But she wasn’t his mate.

His wolf growled in his mind, restless and dissatisfied. Kieran knew the pull of the bond, the instinctive call of a fated mate. He had waited, searched, but he had never found her. And he was starting to wonder if he ever would.

A knock sounded at the door, pulling him from his thoughts.

“Come in,” he said, straightening.

The door creaked open, and Gideon Hartwell stepped inside. His Beta was a massive wall of muscle, his brown hair tousled from the wind, his expression grim. “We have a problem,” he said without preamble.

Kieran turned, bracing himself. “What is it?”

Gideon shut the door behind him. “One of ours is dead.”

A tense silence filled the room.

“Who?” Kieran asked, his voice eerily calm.

“Jonas.”

Kieran’s stomach dropped. Jonas had been one of his warriors, a seasoned fighter who had survived battles that should have killed him. If someone had taken him down, they were either incredibly strong or incredibly smart.

“How?”

“Found his body near the eastern border. Throat torn out. No sign of a struggle.”

Kieran frowned. “No struggle?”

Gideon shook his head. “It’s like he didn’t see it coming. Or worse—he knew his killer.”

The words settled heavily in Kieran’s chest. If Jonas had been killed without a fight, that meant either betrayal or an enemy who had caught him completely off guard. Neither option was good.

“We need to find out who did this,” Kieran said.

“I already sent scouts to search the area. No scent trail, no footprints.” Gideon’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Whoever did this knew how to cover their tracks.”

A cold rage burned through Kieran’s veins. He had moved his pack here to escape the ghosts of the past, but it seemed trouble had followed him. And if there was one thing he despised, it was being hunted on his own land.

“We’ll figure it out,” he said, his voice quiet but firm.

Gideon nodded but didn’t leave. Instead, he hesitated. “There’s something else,” he said.

Kieran arched a brow. “Go on.”

“There was… a witness.”

That got his full attention. “Who?”

Gideon shifted uncomfortably. “Aisling Raine.”

Kieran’s brow furrowed. The name was vaguely familiar.

“The bartender at the Hollow Fang,” Gideon clarified.

Kieran exhaled through his nose. He had been to the Hollow Fang once or twice since their arrival in Silverbrook Ridge, but he had never paid much attention to the staff. The place was rough, full of rogues and loners who wanted nothing to do with pack life.

“She saw what happened?” Kieran asked.

“She claims she did.”

Kieran caught the edge of doubt in Gideon’s voice. “You don’t believe her?”

Gideon sighed. “She’s not exactly reliable. Keeps to herself. Has a reputation for bending the truth when it suits her.”

Kieran frowned. A witness was a witness, no matter how questionable. If Aisling Raine had seen something, he needed to know what.

“Where is she now?”

“Still at the bar. She refused to come in for questioning.”

Kieran’s lips curled in irritation. “Did she?”

Gideon smirked. “She told me, and I quote, ‘I don’t answer to Alphas, so take your orders and shove them up your—’”

“I get the picture,” Kieran muttered.

A defiant little rogue, then. That was fine. He had dealt with worse.

“Then I guess we’re paying the Hollow Fang a visit.”

Gideon grinned. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

Kieran grabbed his leather jacket and strode toward the door. The night was far from over, and if Aisling Raine thought she could slip away from this, she was in for a surprise.

No one disrespected him and got away with it. And no one in his territory—rogue or not—kept secrets from him.

Tonight, he would get his answers.

One way or another.