The door bursts open with a crash of wood and cold wind. I scramble back as much as Thorne's heavy body allows, my heart slamming against my ribs. There he stands—Jericho. My mate. The one with the sharp green eyes and wolf-shift grace, the one who'd vanished into the wastes promising to return. He looks the same but rougher, cloak torn at the edges, hair wild from the run. His gaze locks on us, on his father pinning me down on the furs, clothes half-tugged aside, the circlet crooked on my head.
"Dad??" Jericho's voice cracks with disbelief, raw surprise flashing across his face. He hadn't seen his father in years, that much was clear from the way his shoulders stiffened, like he was staring at a ghost from the old blood stories.
