The hum of low voices carries through the hallway, laughter and hushed murmurs bouncing off the walls. Marco stops mid-step, his sharp hearing picking up on words that make his blood run hot.
“Without Lowell in his grasp, Marco’s grip is slipping. You hear about the rogue saying he’s all bark now? Packs are getting bolder by the day,” one voice says, followed by a snicker.
“Maybe he should concentrate more on mending the s**t and less on breaking tables,” another one remarks with conceit.
Marco stands stiff and angry, his fists tightening into balls that are pressing against his palms. He doesn’t need to see them to know who’s speaking—two low-ranking fighters, the sort to chime in only when they believe they have the opportunity to do so in secret.
His boots echo on the hardwood as he
