The house had grown quiet, but the scent of blood still clung to the air, thick and inescapable. Gino’s blood. It was different from the scent of a fresh kill, different from the ones Makayla and Mikhail had grown accustomed to over the years. It wasn’t just food. It wasn’t just the remnants of some unfortunate soul caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was him, their father, the only human in a house of predators, and that made it personal.
Makayla tried to ignore it, shifting her weight from one foot to the other as she watched Celine work. Her mother moved with precision, carefully tending to Gino’s wound, but there was an unmistakable tension in her posture. It wasn’t just concern for Gino—though that was certainly part of it. No, this was something else.
She was angry.
No
