Morning doesn’t feel like morning.
There’s no calm.
No softness.
Only movement.
The packhouse is alive before the sun fully rises—wolves moving with purpose, voices low but urgent, footsteps echoing through halls that once felt like home.
Now, it feels like a command center.
Jack stands at the center of it all.
Alpha.
Unshaken.
Unmovable.
“Move in groups,” he orders. “No one leaves alone. Escorts on every route.”
His voice carries across the room, cutting through the tension like steel.
Dean stands beside him, already relaying instructions to patrol leaders. Felix is coordinating supply runs. Genelia is organizing the evacuation list—her expression calm, even as her hands move quickly.
Everything is happening at once.
Because it has to.
Samantha watches from the stairs for a
