Apollo
The rogue shifter was tied to a thick, splintered post in the center of the stone cellar, his wrists rubbed raw where the iron shackles bit into his skin. His head hung low, strands of matted hair veiling his bruised face as blood dripped steadily from his nose and split lip, leaving dark stains on the dirt-caked floor beneath him.
The thick, metallic scent of blood choked the air — but beneath that, sharp and wrong, was the unmistakable musk of wolf. Twisted. Distorted. Feral in a way that didn't just signal rage or pain — it screamed of something corrupted. Something unnatural.
Cyrus leaned lazily against the damp wall, his dagger glinting as he scraped blood from under his nails with a deliberate sort of disinterest — the kind of calm that only came from men who had seen enoug
