CARLA
The midday sun poured through my bedroom window, casting golden streaks across the hardwood floor. The warm light did little to thaw the chill that lingered in my chest. Since the attack, the pack house had felt more like a gilded cage than a home. Dawson’s orders were clear: I wasn’t to leave until the rogue threat was neutralized.
It was protective, I knew that, but it was suffocating too.
There was a soft knock at my door before it creaked open. Dawson stepped inside, his tall frame filling the space effortlessly. His hair was slightly dishevelled, and the tension around his eyes told me he hadn’t been sleeping well.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, his voice steady but lacking the warmth I desperately craved.
“I’m fine,” I replied, tucking my knees under my chin as I sat on
