As they took their seats near at the long pack table, the silence seemed to press in on them from all sides. A few Pack members threw them wary glances, but most kept their eyes glued to their untouched food.
Jax sat across from them, his usually loud obnoxious self replaced by a grimace. He wasn’t eating—which, for Jax, was more alarming than the silence itself. Instead, he was turning a heavy butter knife over and over in his hands, his hands turning it without even thinking about it.
Finnegan leaned across the table, his voice pitched low so only Jax and Leela could hear. “Jax. What’s going on? Where are they?”
Jax stopped playing with the knife. He looked up, his dark eyes shadowed with a mix of anger and profound unease. “Dad got a tip from our inside contact about twenty minutes a
