The parking lot goes sideways fast.
A black SUV blocks the exit. Three agents spread out in that tight, practiced formation that screams they’re not amateurs. They planned for Maddox and Ryker. They accounted for wolves, weapons, every damn variable.
Not one of them is looking at me.
They didn’t put me in the equation. I don’t know yet if that’s good or catastrophic.
Kieran shifts mid-stride—no control, just a brutal, bone-cracking explosion of muscle and claw as his body stops pretending to be human.
The roar that rips out of him slams into my sternum before my brain even catches up. The nearest agent stumbles back a full step before his training snaps him back into place.
I’ve spent three years studying werewolves—field notes, journal articles, secondhand accounts wrapped in carefu
