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Telling Ryan
Sydney
I pull my truck through the gates of Silverhide thirty minutes after leaving my own territory. Tall pines rise up all around me as the road leading out of the city center, and the NZ, narrows, and turns to finely packed gravel dusted with snow.
Ryan’s house is the first building visible in the dense forest. It rises above the trees, stately and modern despite being a log home. The windows reflect the snow as I drive past his private driveway and dip down into the village.
Silverhide is a small, exclusive pack. After the war twenty-two years ago, several of the rogue villages along the base of the mountains that border Eastonia moved inward, trying to integrate into the packs in Crescent Falls. When Ryan and I came of age and started our own packs, he chose this old, undeveloped territory and opened his gates to whoever wanted to follow his lead then promptly shut them again.
His numbers are small even compared
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