The night after the rebellion was the quietest Shadowfang had ever been.
No growls.
No whispers.
Just the soft wail of the wind weaving through the ruined courtyard, carrying the heavy scent of blood, ash, and sorrow.
The pack had gone to rest, but no one truly slept. Not after what they’d seen.
Not after what Ronan had done.
I found him standing at the edge of the forest, the moonlight washing over his bare shoulders like liquid silver. His blade still glimmered with dried blood, his knuckles white where he gripped the hilt. He hadn’t moved for hours. It was as if every death, every scream, had carved itself into his skin.
I approached quietly, my feet crunching against the broken earth. “You should rest,” I murmured.
His jaw tightened. “Alphas don’t rest.”
“You’re not just an Al
