The luna moth lass skirted her way around the pack borders, trying to listen for wolves. Finally she gave up and howled into the borders.
Nadia had known she could never go to Hawthorne; the queen had killed her brother, Boiko. And of course, Pontchartrain had killed Natalya. . . . She found out later that Natalya herself and her and Boiko’s girl Rue had killed Huginn; Revna, beta (or was it delta?) of Hawthorne, had killed Muninn.
Sabertooth held her mother’s lost soulmate Remus and potentially her mother. Nadia didn’t want to defy her wishes, so Dawnshire it was.
She was carrying Wendigo’s children. She would make a future for them. She’d be happy and live out her life.
She hoped.
Nadia waited. She could wait. Her future was waiting for her. She would wait as long as she needed. Which could be a while. She sat, eyes landing on a dragonfly. Dawnshire was so . . . different. It wasn’t cold like Tarben. Well, not as cold. She breathed in the pine smell. It was amazing. Tarben had no pines, no scents except dominant, hormonal males. Nadia didn’t think she’d ever like that smell again.
Sister all but disowned her, sisters and brother dead, father disowned her, mother abandoned her, sister run off and disappeared. Pregnant by her father’s order. Nadia was a wreck. But for the first time, she felt a glimmer of hope. She could leave her whole life behind. She’d bathed in a stream on her way here, washing off the stink of Tarben. She would never belong to anyone again.
She rehearsed her approach to this situation: She was a lonely maiden looking for a pack. She was pregnant with the children of a man who had never loved her. She would tell them this.

“She tied you to a kitchen chair; she broke your throne and she cut your hair!”