For two days the Saints had been established in Redsand and for two days Finley had been starkly reminded she was not a mountain wolf, not by nature. Sandstone grazed at the flesh beneath her paws, and her brown hide among the warm canyons felt like a stain on the landscape. But she was a Saint, and this was the Saints’ new home, and Finley would not complain.

Still, nothing forbade leaving the territory; the scent of the second leader, Nemisis, snaking down and out southward, said as much. Apprehension tugged at Finley as she followed the trail, making no effort to hide herself; if she was an unwanted follower she would turn and leave at Nemisis’ first command. Part of Finley was still wary of the darker wolf, after all she’d heard—but the move had gone without incident, and it wasn’t in Nemisis’ best interests to attack a packmate anyway.

And yet. Aggressive voices over the hills gave Finley pause. One was Nemisis, doubtless, spitting threats and warnings: “…I’ll rip you apart like I did the last girl stupid enough to disrespect me.” Sheer, unbridled rage radiated off her bristling pelt. Something was off about her stance, but Finley, standing a short ways up the hillside, was too far away to pinpoint why. Facing Nemisis’ threat was a pale stranger, an icy female who smelled vaguely of a pack—and, oddly, not a local one. The entry of yet another, tearing into the hollow from the south, gave voice to Finley’s thoughts: “What is going on here?” But had he called the white wolf a “monarch”? The glare he offered Nemisis confirmed his alliance.

The hairs on Finley’s neck bristled. If this situation went south, Nemisis was outnumbered, faced off against a fellow leader no less. Suddenly Finley’s personal hesitations were irrelevant. She ducked her head, tensing, willing to attack if the need arose. Maybe Nemisis would rein in her fury and avoid bloodshed, and Finley would leave with her without another word. But she was not hidden, and made no effort to be; Finley wanted Nemisis—and the others—to know the Saint was not alone.

The monarch presumptuously declared Nemisis about to leave, and Finley became keenly aware that she’d been noticed. Good. With her focus laser-pointed on the encounter between leaders, Finley was only barely aware of Colin’s scent drifting down the hillside. Excellent. More backup.

But despite (or perhaps because of) the additional presence, Nemisis’ growl sounded more like frustration than the precursor of attack. And then, to Finley’s shock, the volatile overseer backed down—albeit not without warning. Of even more surprise to Finley were the words Nemisis left; had the foreign monarch assaulted the Saints’ leader? But surely it would have been before the journey to the Canyons, and if either of the leads appeared out of sorts it was Nemisis.

Still, the retreat was not in full; Nemisis still had the full attention of the unfamiliar male. Finley’s own attention turned to the golden-eyed wolf. Just what was she doing here, and had she come for Donovan? The reasoning could be determined later. Finley would not let her guard down until Nemisis left in full—and even so, she wouldn’t dare turn her own back on the white wolves. The premature declaration of Nemisis’ leave suggested they might not have wanted a fight, either. Smart, if they didn’t; they were outnumbered.