Carlisle stumbled into the packhouse, his movements sluggish, his mind clouded. His steps echoed softly against the wooden floor as he ran a hand through his dishevelled hair. The taste of whisky still lingered on his tongue—a bitter reminder of the stupid mistake he’d just made. Asher was seated at the long table in his office, hunched over a map of the territory.
Carlisle hesitated for a moment at the doorway, but the guilt gnawing at his insides pushed him forward.
"Asher," Carlisle croaked, his voice rough from the alcohol.
Asher glanced up, immediately noticing the uneven sway in Carlisle’s stance and the glazed look in his eyes. He raised an eyebrow but remained calm. "Carlisle? What’s going on? You look like hell."
Carlisle exhaled shakily and sank into the chair opposite Asher,
