Kael’s POV
By the time we get back, Ryker’s still bleeding—not badly, but enough.
Red stains the snow where he walked, faint, dragged, careless.
The marks trail behind him, stark against the white—a map of mistakes we can’t erase.
He doesn’t look at me as we step inside. He shifts back without a word, jaw tight, shoulders locked like he’s bracing for something that isn’t coming. He should feel it.
Fenrir stays quiet. So do I.
Ryker grabs a towel and wipes at his hands like that’ll fix anything; it doesn’t. The smell of blood lingers, sharp and metallic, clinging to the air and to every memory that brought us here.
“You’re going to infect that if you don’t clean it properly,” I say.
Ryker doesn't reply; he tosses the towel aside and leans on the counter, head dropping for a second,
