Logan
My father didn’t announce his visit.
The door to my study opened without a knock, and there he was: coat still on, silver-capped cane tapping against the hardwood heralding his arrival.
A butler trailed behind him, carrying a bottle of whiskey I didn’t ask for.
“Sit,” he said, already doing so himself. “This won’t take long.”
I watched him settle in like he owned the room, then crossed to the opposite chair and lowered myself without comment.
The whiskey was poured without ceremony. He set my glass on the table between us. I left it untouched.
“You’ve had a busy few weeks,” he began, eyes flicking to the stack of reports on my desk. “Fundraisers. Sanctuaries. I hear you even made time for the press.”
“The Pack needs transparency,” I said. “Especially now.”
He hummed. A soun
