Ella
“Won’t you come to bed?” I inquire, leaning over Sinclair’s back and wrapping my arms around his neck. “You need to rest.”
My mate is sitting at his computer drafting emails and marching orders, secret correspondences to his allies and spies across the continent. He’s been trying to figure out some way to get a message to the people of the united packs, to let them know we’re alive and will not forsake them. So far the best plan we’ve come up with are for willing rebels to post bulletins and spray paint messages throughout the various cities, as well as anti-authoritarian propaganda. No one likes the idea of civilians endangering themselves in order to get the word out, but we don’t have much choice. This is a whole new world we’re living in.
“In a while.” Sinclair murmurs, rubbin
