Matteo
The air in the hallway didn’t just feel cold; it felt dead.
Every step I took toward the holding cells vibrated through the soles of my boots, a heavy, rhythmic thud that sounded like a funeral drum. My wolf was clawing at the back of my ribs, his snout slick with the imagined blood of everyone who had let her slip through the gates. He wanted to howl. He wanted to tear the throat out of the world until the scent of cedar and rain—her scent—was the only thing left in the atmosphere.
I reached the heavy steel doors of the security wing. Two guards, Miller and Vance, stood at attention. They were shaking. I could smell the sour, metallic tang of their fear from ten feet away. It was a pathetic smell.
"Alpha," Miller began, his voice cracking like thin ice. "We didn't see the—"
I
