The council’s cars are gone, but the scent of them lingers — judgment. The packhouse feels different now; not just tense but alive, like a den of wolves circling before a fight.
I sit at the edge of the bed in Asher’s room, fingers tangled in the quilt, staring at the scars on my arms. The raw marks from Spencer’s claws gleam faintly in the soft moonlight filtering through the window. Their questions echo in my head. My mother’s cruel smile. My father’s sneer. Rhys’s unreadable eyes. Every syllable of accusation still hangs heavy in the room, as if the walls themselves had absorbed the council’s scrutiny and were now replaying it.
Asher closes the door softly behind him. He’s shed his shirt, damp from training in the gym. His wolf is close, golden light flickering in his gaze. The tensio
