The night stretched long and restless. The packhouse was quiet, though the silence was deceptive. Beneath the stillness lay unease, the kind that seeped into the bones of every wolf after the discovery of the Shadow Fang’s mark. Even in their sleep, most tossed and turned, haunted by whispers of a war they weren’t ready to face.
But Lucian did not sleep.
He hadn’t since the rogues struck. His wolf paced within him, restless, a storm clawing against the walls of his mind. The Alpha in him demanded vigilance—strength, focus, clarity. But the man in him? He was burning, aching, gnawed hollow by a hunger he could no longer ignore.
He stood on the balcony outside his chamber, the moonlight catching the sharp edges of his face. His fists gripped the stone railing, knuckles white, as the night
