RAFAEL POV
The war map stretched before me like a battlefield painted in blood.
Pins marked rogue sightings along our borders. Red strings connected their movements, chaotic, unpredictable, like rats scrambling for crumbs.
I rubbed a hand down my face, the stubble on my jaw scratching my palm. I hadn't slept. Didn't need to. Rage was a better fuel than any f*****g rest.
I leaned over the map, palms braced against the table. I was f*****g falling apart, and I needed to clear my goddamn head.
The Pack house, with its stone walls and the scent of pine and earth, was a cold comfort. It was supposed to feel like home, but instead, it felt like a cage. A reminder of the things I couldn't escape.
The rogues were closing in. We couldn't afford to be distracted. But even with my thoughts scat
