CHAPTER 82
MARCO
QUIET TEETH
I paced the length of the room for what had to be the hundredth time, bare feet whispering over the polished floor before I turned sharply again, three steps short of the window. Always three. Muscle memory. Control. Or the illusion of it.
My wolf hated this room. I could feel him pacing with me, a heavy presence just under my skin, shoulders rolling MY, teeth clicking faintly in agitation. The space was too tight, too watched. The air smelled wrong, layered with unfamiliar wolves, fresh dominance markers, ward magic humming like a low electrical current in my bones. Extra security. My father’s favourite language.
“This isn’t subtle,” I muttered to no one. My wolf agreed, a low, irritated rumble curling through my chest.
My father never did anything wit
