"Nothing quite like this déjà vu, is there?" I mutter softly as the rented SUV carrying us pulls up in front of the Desert packhouse. Glancing at Sean, I get the briefest of nods.
We woke late this morning after the long night translating the Rényú hieroglyphs to learn that our timetable had been accelerated. Kallie, Silas' mate, had given birth to their fourth daughter in the wee hours. Within moments of the child's birth, the Consular Tribune had declared Silas' trial would start today.
Sean's golden eyes glitter—watchful and wary—as the main door opens. Two burly Weres dressed in matching uniforms of black slacks and epaulet-emblazoned polo shirts pour out immediately and descend the stairs to the driver's door as Ian rolls down the darkly tinted window.
"Alpha Gallagher." The Were who addressed Ian glances across the vehicle at Darby and his gaze halts.
