We six ladies cluster together outside the walls of Crimsonshadow Estate, looking up at the massive sand-colored rock in the distance. It perches ominously in the middle of scrub-choked land like a fat dragon overlooking its territory. Specks of white traverse the steep angles and ridges of the cliff, moving gracefully despite their large bulks and tiny hooves. A blast of sun-warmed air races across the open plain; it only amplifies the heat instead of bringing relief.

Goddess, it's not even noon! It's so cool in the estate that I've forgotten how hot it is outside. How can these wolves live like this? I pull at the collar of my brown hunting jacket, flapping it back and forth to no avail. I glance over at Morgana who is visibly struggling to maintain her queenly posture. The other ladies seem to be fairing no better—Elaine is pale and looks about ready to pass out; Letitia's perfect complexion is splotchy, her blonde tresses hanging limply around her ears.

Alpha Thorne stands with his back to the cliff, the sleeves of his white linen shirt rolled up to the elbows. Why is it appropriate for the men to be half-dressed and we have to wear layers? A trickle of sweat rolls down my back and disappears into the band of my underwear. Ugh.

"My men will go up and herd them down for you ladies," Alpha Thorne says, nodding to the betas standing off to the side.

I force myself not to turn my head in that direction, only sneaking the tiniest of peeks out of the corner of my eye. Lord Blackwood stands next to his cousin, rolled up sleeves highlighting his well-defined forearms. At least the goddess saw fit not to include the enforcer in this group.

"I would much prefer to do the chasing, Alpha Thorne," Morgana tells him, her voice subtly weaker.

Alpha Thorne blinks. "There are certain areas that are rather treacherous for novice climbers, Your Majesty."

Morgana looks like a wilted snowflake in the desert. A thin sheen of sweat covers her face, but she still manages to convey an air of authority. "You said yourself that this is a rite of passage for pups entering adulthood. Why am I any different?"

The alpha's jaw clenches and I look up at the cliff. If we were cats instead of wolves, I might agree with Morgana, but alas, my claws are not retractable, nor is my spine so flexible.

"Because I do not wish harm to come to Your Majesty," Alpha Thorne replies.

Morgana's jaw tightens with stubbornness and determination. As I know all too well, she does not like being told "no" these days. Power flickers between queen and alpha, a battle of indomitable wills. I need to do something, but what?

On Morgana's other side, Thara moans softly and sways on her feet. An idea strikes me like a lightning bolt. I rip at the buttons of my hunting jacket, peeling the obnoxious garment off. Relief is instantaneous; I sigh as warm desert air brushes over my sweaty limbs.

"What are you doing, Issa?" Morgana demands, eyebrows raised.

"Trying not to pass out before the hunt," I reply, handing the jacket to a Crimsonshadow servant.

"So unseemly," Letitia mutters, pushing limp strands of blonde hair behind each ear.

Morgana and I lock gazes; I casually roll up the sleeves of my blouse and pull the pins out of my bun, letting my dark brow tresses fall around my shoulders.

"Fuck these stupid jackets," Morgana grumbles, yanking hers off and throwing it to the ground. "Ah!" she exclaims, throwing her arms open wide to take advantage of the desert breeze. "So much better."

I grin as the other girls trade uncertain glances. All they know is the rigid social structure and norms of the court and the higher packs. Morgana and I used to run around in nothing but stays and cut-off trousers.

Morgana glances over her shoulder at the girls. "Pass out, then," she snorts, rolling up her sleeves. Long, thin scars crisscross her forearms. They used to be more visible, but her tan has faded over the years of living mainly indoors.

Thara, pale to the point of bloodlessness, is the first to strip off her jacket. The others soon follow, with Letitia the last one to divest of the heavy garment. I take the thin ribbon that was wrapped around my bun and tie my hair up into a high horse's tail. Of course, none of this will matter once I shift, but in the moments before the hunt, it's all the relief I can manage.

Morgana turns and faces Alpha Thorne. "So, Alpha Thorne," she says, crossing her arms, "will you lead us up the cliff?"

A war wages behind the alpha's eyes. He takes a deep breath, blinks slowly, then nods. "Of course, Your Majesty. Follow me." He rolls his shoulders forward, eyes flashing amber. The air bends around him; between one moment and the next, a massive ruddy red and brown wolf now stands in Alpha Thorne's place.

Morgana shifts, a wolf of ice and snow among sand and sun. I call forth my wolf and drop to all fours, shaking out my brown pelt. My jaw drops, tongue lolling out as I pant. The temperature has not lowered, but I feel somewhat cooler.

I glance to my right and watch the betas, the alpha's son Russell, and Lord Blackwood shift. Their pelts are of similar shades—mixtures of reds, browns, and sand colors—and are significantly shorter than mine and Morgana's, no doubt to adapt to this harsh climate.

"What's taking you lot so long?"

My left ear swivels, head following. Morgana faces Letitia, Elaine, Thara, and Petra, who, strangely, have yet to shift.

Letitia tugs at the cuffs of her blouse. "It takes a while, Your Majesty."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. These four might as well be human. I remember when they told us they rarely shifted; Morgana nearly laughed herself into a stomach cramp.

Morgana's lips curl back from her teeth. "I thought I told you to practice."

Elaine fidgets and says, "Yes, Your Majesty, but—"

"Argh!" Morgana snarls, snapping her jaws. "Stay put, then! Issa and I will hunt."

"Can we?" Thara asks in a small, thin voice.

"Idiots," Morgana growls, pivoting. "Let's go, Issa."

She bolts forward to stand next to Alpha Thorne, leaving me blinking away the dust from her paws. Despite her shorter stature in human form, as a wolf, Morgana has several inches on the alpha. I turn my head slightly and see that the girls are retrieving their jackets from nearby servants. What an odd bunch. They willingly wield the power of betas, yet they refuse their birthrights. I don't understand it.

Not willing to provoke another tongue-lashing from Morgana, I trot over to her and stand several feet behind, listening as Alpha Thorne explains the climb.

"Lady Isabel."

My right ear flicks, catching a familiar voice. I can't grimace in wolf-form—it looks more like a snarl—but my nails dig into the sandy ground. Lord Blackwood stands nearby, his brown coat lighter than mine with highlights of red mixed throughout. A dark brown saddle patch stretches from shoulder to tail.

"Might I have a word?"

I focus my gaze on Morgana's ears, but they're trained on the alpha's instructions. "What do you want, Lord Blackwood?" I reply, pitching my voice low. The tip of my tail swings back and forth.

"I want to apologize for last night."

A soft snort escapes me. "There's nothing to apologize for."

That should be the end of the conversation, but he presses on. "I want you to know that I had every intention of continuing our conversation, even calling on you at Daroonga."

A heavy "but" lingers between us.

"But," he continues, "the queen offered to sponsor me with the palace guard."

"A more favorable position than a commission in the army," I note dryly. One that will keep him close to her and in no danger of being sent to the borders to deal with orcs or dragons.

He nods, ears folding back slightly. "Yes. I am sorry, but I wanted you to know the reason behind my decision."

I can't blame him—truly. Being the favorite of the queen opens doors for many men: power, commissions, fine estates, the hand of an eligible pack heiress. "Thank you," I reply tightly, not feeling grateful in the least.

"I appreciate your understanding," he says. "And, perhaps ... once the queen's favor wanes, we can pick up where we left off?" He cocks his head, ears pricking forward.

I stiffen. Is his opinion so high of himself that he believes I will wait for him? He chose the queen over me. I have never had an interest in her cast-offs; I will not start now. Especially after being cowed into submission for even daring to argue with Morgana over a man.

A low, humorless chuckle rumbles in my chest. "No. I don't think I will," I tell him.

Lord Blackwood's amber wolf eyes widen. "N-no?" He stumbles over the word, as if I've spoken orcish. "But I thought we had a connection."

"We did," I tell him, pawing at the sand. "But my interest in you has waned. I hope you understand."

The alpha's nephew stares at me, shoulders rolling forward. "You—"

He is unable to finish his sentence, because Morgana and Alpha Thorne have called the hunting pack to heel. It's time to ascend the cliff.