Nixon’s POV
"You think you can just scrub her away, don't you?"
The voice scraped against the inside of my skull, low and heavy with the scent of pine and fresh copper. My wolf. He had been lurking in the dark corners of my mind since the moment Scout walked out, waiting for my grip to slip.
I didn't answer him. I knelt lower on the cold floor, my knee pressing into the hardwood until it throbbed. I clamped a wet wipe between my thumb and forefinger, rubbing the dried blood off Iris’s face in the cracked silver frame. The dark red crust was stubborn. It had already set into the grain of the photograph, turning a nasty, bruised brown.
Leave it, the wolf growled, his mental teeth clicking. You are only making it worse.
"Shut up," I muttered under my breath.
I pressed harder. The cheap
