Dante
The next morning, the clubhouse was silent except for the low rumble of engines being tuned out back and the occasional clink of metal against metal. But beneath the surface, tension churned like a brewing storm. Everyone could feel it—like the quiet before a bloodbath. We were being watched. Hunted. And I wasn’t about to sit back and let it happen.
Talon stood at the main table, a spread of printed surveillance photos and reports scattered before him. His jaw ticked as he looked up at me.
“I’ve pulled every face we’ve recorded entering town in the last month. Most check out. But a couple don’t belong to any known pack or local,” he said.
“Let me guess,” I muttered, pulling up a chair beside him. “No ID, no history. Like ghosts.”
“Exactly. One’s male, mid-thirties, lean build, a
