There was one thing Frances Arundel-Clearwater hated more than a lie – a secret.
Secrets were killers. They built walls within friendships, shoved splinters between lovers.
Secrets were not compatible with love.
But, what if love depended on a secret?
Could you hurt one you loved, to sustain another?
The storm was on its way; she could hear the whip against the windows.
He was waiting on her – they all were.
But her mother stood in front of the door.
"Frances, I can tell that you've been lying to me."
"And it hurts."
Frances could feel her resolve begin to crumble.
"I can't do anything to stop that."
She pushed past her mother out the door into the biting wind. She had to go now. The pack would be waiting on her.
The newborn army was on its way.