Thomas's POV
Pain is a constant companion these days. Dull, throbbing reminder of my age, my wounds, and all the s**t that's gone down. From my wheelchair by the library window, I watched shadows stretch across the lawn as afternoon bled into evening.
Decades of intelligence reports surrounded me—folders splayed across my desk, sticky notes marking connections between packs, families, old vendettas. My life's work, in a way. Knowing who might stab us in the back before they even bought the knife.
The door creaked open. Claire entered with two steaming mugs, kicking the door shut behind her.
"Thought you could use this," she said, placing one beside me. "It's actual coffee, not that crap Gregory's been making."
I inhaled deeply, savoring the aroma. "Bless you, child."
"Find anything u
