(Steel’s POV)
By the time we hit the camp, I knew something was wrong.
The blues band was gone. The laughter, the warmth, gone.
Only silence, thick and waiting, hung in the night.
The air itself trembled, humming like the moment before lightning tears the sky.
Then the sound hit us.
Music. Low. Slow. Seeping through the dirt like toxic smoke.
It wasn’t just heard, it was felt, weaving under the skin, looping the heartbeat.
War Dragon stiffened beside me, eyes flaring black. “He’s here.”
Ragnar’s song wasn’t music. It was possession.
A rhythm that rewrote pulse and thought until desire turned to madness.
Around us, the wolves began to sway, their bodies caught in a fever dream.
A woman moaned, arching against a tree. Another dragged her claws down a man’s chest, tearing skin and
