The war came knocking far sooner than I’d braced for.
Damian’s study clung to the cold, rich scent of aged leather, layered over a sharper, metallic undertone—restless adrenaline, the crisp tang of a battle plan already set in motion, unyielding and final.
He stood behind his desk, dress sleeves rolled tight to his forearms, one phone pressed firm to his ear. He didn’t glance up when I stepped inside, only lifted a single, silent hand. Wait.
I obeyed.
The kunzite on his desk caught the warm lamplight, spilling bruised purple shadows across his sharp jawline. He looked like a masterfully crafted oil painting—striking, immaculate, composed on the surface, yet hiding quiet rot and ruthless hunger beneath the polished stillness.
“Clear the Wolfhart crew. Deploy Sterling’s tactical team fo
