Knock
Callum opened the door.
He didn’t shove it. Didn’t kick it like Seth. Didn’t stalk in like Jaxon or slip in with a grin like Rory.
He entered the way storms break: quiet, decisive, inevitable.
Jax followed, shadowed and lethal. Seth sauntered in last, pretending he wasn’t vibrating with pent-up dominance. Rory closed the door with a flick that would’ve looked casual if the wards hadn’t flared at the same time—silver threads along the walls responding like startled birds.
The packhouse loved them.
Tonight, it was practically purring.
I sat cross-legged in the center of the massive bed, hands fisted in the silk coverlet to keep myself from fidgeting. The feel of it offered helped, but not enough to calm the way my wolf snapped toward their scents the second they stepped inside.
