RionI reach the cottage as the sun is barely up, the dirt path already warming where early light slants through the woods. I can hear the blue jays in the sycamore above the porch click and gossip, indifferent to my arrival. My ancient hands hesitate on the fresh-painted railing: this is not the home of a timid child anymore, but the dwelling of a woman and her mate, self-determined and fiercely so. I pause a half-breath, then knock.Raven answers with her hair in a haphazard braid, still damp from a shower. She’s wearing a faded t-shirt that once belonged to Jax, the old pack insignia almost indecipherable from repeated washes. She lifts one eyebrow, a quick, surgical appraisal. “Did you come to get me for training today?” she asks. No preamble, no hospitality, but I sense her awareness—she’s already clocked the intensity of my presence.“No,” I say, “but may I come in? There’s something I want to discuss.”She turns, leaving the door open behind her, trusting that if I were a threa
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