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With my face this close to the coffee maker, I can feel the heat of the liquid against my face, feel the steam from the water curling around my cheeks. The smell is rich, wrapping around my head and lifting the weight of exhaustion for a few seconds.

I’m holding my mug under the nozzle, catching those first few drops—the strongest, and by my estimation, most caffeinated—when I feel a presence behind me.

“Morning, Emin,” I say, without turning around. Even without his scent, I would recognize him from the sound of his shoes on the floor alone. Without looking, I know he’s leaning against the doorway to the kitchen, arms crossed, eyes narrowed on me as I quickly swap out my mug for the coffee pot.

“You know,” Emin says as I turn around. “I’m starting to think you’re abusing your privileges.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose with two fingers, then take a sip of the coffee, letting the warmth of it pool in my stomach. I picture it spreading through my veins, waking my body.

According to the pack doctor, caffeine doesn’t affect us the same way it does humans. I desperately hope that’s wrong.

“If a lousy cup of coffee is all I get for my services,” I grumble, “maybe I’m the one being abused.”

Emin laughs and peels away from the door, following me as I walk down the hall. In this early morning light, his reddish-golden hair glints in the light. It’s not something I’d normally notice, but it sticks in my mind, reminding me of another person with the exact same hair, how hers fell to her shoulders, how she would tuck it behind her ear.

“What are you thinking about?” Emin asks, catching me in the thought, and I push it away quickly.

“That’s classified,” I grunt, gesturing for him to go ahead of me when we reach the door. Emin is tall, but half an inch shorter than I, much to his chagrin—and strong, his body more lithe than mine, but still bulky from our afternoons in the gym together. He slides through the door, and I turn as I follow him to keep from bumping my coffee on the door frame.

When we walk into the meeting room together, several other members of the council are already here. Not all packs choose to assemble a council, but I find it helps to keep the peace. Makes people feel heard, even if we all know I have the final say on every matter.

The room smells of new carpet and icing—my eyes dart to the box of donuts on the table, lid open, already missing a few. No doubt the work of Janice, the receptionist and overall manager of the pack hall.

“Good morning, Dorian.”

Kellen Argent—Emin’s father—sits closest to the head of the table, his folder of notes already in front of him. He’s the kind of man who acts like he wants urgency—to finish the meeting, to move on with things—but is usually the one talking for far too long, not realizing he’s the very reason our meetings take more time than they should.

“Good morning, Kellen.” As I pass him, I notice that his hair is fully gray now, every trace of the red-gold color he shares with his children gone. My stomach tightens, once again, at the thought, and I stop at the head of the table, take a deep breath, and clear my head.

More and more lately, it’s been harder for me to keep my mind off the mistakes I made in the past. If I had more time, more energy, if my entire being wasn’t taken up with caring for this pack, I might try to fix the problem. Find her, make amends.

But I don’t have the luxury of time or energy. And that becomes even more apparent when Claire, one of our few casting shifters, clears her throat and looks nervously in my direction.

She is not usually in attendance at these meetings. The casters only come around when there’s something wrong.

“Are we ready to begin, Dorian?” she asks, pushing her curly black hair over her ears. “It’s rather urgent.”

The hairs on the back of my neck rise. Since taking over leadership of the pack, I’ve had to fend off one disaster after another. The drought five years ago, then the flood, a sort of divine comedy at my efforts, taking and giving back in excess. We’ve survived it all as a pack. Surely, we can survive this, too.

But that doesn’t stop my entire body from going into high alert, primed to hear the worst.

“It appears,” she stops, clears her throat, and puts her fist to her mouth. “That the stores of Amanzite are lower than previously thought.”

My gaze darts immediately to Emin, who sits up taller in his chair, his hand immediately going to the small, dark stone set in the chain around his neck—a stone that matches one found on each of us, worn differently depending on the shifter.

Mine is more elaborate, smaller pieces set into a watch around my left wrist. A gift from my grandfather on the night of my first shift. Most shifters in the pack are lucky enough to inherit a piece made for holding Amanzite.

Every shifter is required, for their first shift, to experience what it’s like without the stone, without the imbued magic from the casters. With Amanzite, shifting is near painless, and the magic awards us certain benefits, such as our clothes reappearing when we return to human form; it allows us telepathy, to communicate fully through the pack’s mental link.

Without Amanzite, shifting is a bone-crunching, painful process that leaves you weak and shaken. With no magic to bolster us, we can’t communicate beyond our bodies in the wolf form. It’s the use of the stone and of the magic that puts us at our strongest. That allows us to defend our territories.

Every pack in this area uses Amanzite—or another stone—to the same degree. If we go without it, we are suddenly and completely vulnerable on the south and west territory lines.

“Was there a problem with the inventory management?” My voice is slow, deliberate, and I force myself to soften the tone. I’ve been told, on more than one occasion, that I can be abrasive without realizing it. Despite my frustration with Claire, it’s clear she understands the situation this puts us in.

“I … I suppose so.” Claire audibly swallows, pushes her hair behind her ears, and holds her hands out in front of her. “We’re prepared to work harder—around the clock—to recast on a new supply, but that’s the thing—we need more. Ideally, as soon as we can possibly get it.”

“Our trader from the Lighttails isn’t coming for another six months, at least,” Kellen’s voice rises, deep and concerned, and I hold a hand up to him.

“We are talking to Claire,” I say, without looking at him, but knowing that his concern is warranted. I feel the stone around my wrist pulsing, as if in response to my anger. “Are there any other sources you know of to obtain Amanzite?”

“Other than the trader?” she squeaks, and I realize there’s no way she’ll know—her job is to imbue the stones with magic, not to source them.

“The market,” a voice from the end of the table sounds, and I look up to see Leta Parkes sitting with her arms crossed, her dark eyes fixed on me. The newest addition to the council, she seldom speaks. But Kellen often doesn’t like her input.

“The … market?” Kellen repeats, looking baffled.

But I know exactly what she means.

“The market in Grayhide territory,” I clarify, noting how Kellen stiffens immediately to my left. Grayhide territory is a sore subject for more reasons than one, and I’m attuned to the way he shifts in his chair, gently trying to clear his throat.

As alpha, I’m already more sensitive to the way my pack members feel. Often, I know what they think and want before they do, though whether that’s through plain observation or the bond, I couldn’t say.

And right now, Kellen is thinking about his daughter, and the likelihood that she’s in Grayhide territory right now. His discomfort over our rival pack entering into the conversation seems obvious enough that the others around the table likely pick up on it, too.

Emin has the same reaction, but manages to hide it better, focusing on the subject at hand.

“I doubt any of us have been to the dark market in Grayhide territory,” Emin says. “It would be incredibly dangerous. For a mission like this, we would need weeks to prepare.”

Standing, I clear my throat, heart beating a little too robustly in my chest.

“I’ll go.”

Emin’s gaze snaps to me, but I ignore it. A number of emotions are written over his face—surprise, confusion, reluctance.

“When is this market?” I direct my question to Leta.

“Tomorrow night,” she says. “It always takes place at night. We have the rough coordinates here, but I can send you the other information we have about it.”

“Claire, I’ll need a scent-blocker,” I say, turning to the caster, eyes scanning over her. There are bags under her eyes, and her hands shake as she hides them under the table. The casters are already at capacity with the work they’re doing.

I’ll see to it that she has a rest after this. But for now, there’s nothing we can do.

“I’ll have it prepared right away.”

After calling the council to a close, I stand, moving to head to my place and prepare my things. If I’m moving through Grayhide territory to make it to this market, it’s likely going to take me a full day to cover the distance I need.

“Dorian.”

Emin stops me with a hand on my shoulder. He is the only alpha in this pack that I would ever permit to touch me, and he knows it.

When I turn to him, the look in his eyes is as plain a plea as I’ve ever seen. A reflection of the past, an acknowledgment of where I’m about to go, and the implications of this mission.

“I know,” I say, clasping my hand over his for just a moment, before I turn to go. “I know, Emin.”