The car tore down the gravel drive of the Vargan packhouse so fast it sent a long curl of pale dust hanging in the morning air behind them.
Sailes was barely buckled. One hand braced against the dash. The other already digging in the pocket of his jacket for his phone.
"Corin—"
"Drive."
"I am not driving. You are driving."
"Then talk."
Corin's hands were locked on the wheel. The knuckles were white. His eyes had not lost the gold along the rim yet; the wolf was still sitting too close beneath his skin, breathing through his teeth, prowling the inside of his own ribs. Sailes had seen him angry. Sailes had seen him grieving. Sailes had never, in twenty-eight years of knowing this man, seen him like this.
He swallowed once. He thumbed his phone awake.
"On it."
He scrolled with shakin
