ROMAN
This was not the battleground I was accustomed to.
I stood frozen in the center of the daycare room, surrounded by tiny humans armed with sticky fingers and boundless energy, while Liam Thorne watched from the doorway with the smuggest smile I'd ever witnessed on his aristocratic face.
"Enjoying yourself, Vance?" he asked, leaning against the doorframe like he owned the place—which technically, as a major donor to the Rogue Foundation, he partially did.
I didn't bother answering. My pride had already taken enough hits today. The evidence was pinned to my chest—a laminated name tag declaring me "Roman Vance, Play Specialist" in cheerful bubble letters.
How had it come to this?
Twenty-four hours ago, I was Alpha Roman Vance of the Silverclaw Pack, feared and respected throughout three territories. I'd negotiated peace treaties, led battles, and commanded one of the strongest werewolf packs in the nation.
