Damon’s POV
The study was quiet except for the crackle of a fire that Arlo must have conjured. It didn’t escape me that he seemed to have a flair for dramatics, even in the smallest things. Candles flickered in the corners, the scent of something sharp—clove or maybe sage—lingering in the air. He leaned casually over a map of our territory, but I didn’t miss the sharp focus in his eyes.
The guy was exhausting. Always thinking, always scheming. But I’d give him this much: he didn’t waste time, and he knew more than anyone in this pack wanted to admit.
He didn’t turn around when I stepped into the room, his voice cutting through the silence. “Damon. Punctual, as always.”
“I wasn’t aware I was on a schedule,” I said, leaning against the doorframe. “What’s this about?”
“Your son,” he said
