Matteo
The air in the sawmill bunker was stagnant, smelling of old grease and the bitter, unwashed scent of my own self-loathing. After walking out on Aveline in the gym, I had retreated to the shadows of the motor pool, my hands still shaking with the phantom sensation of her skin beneath my teeth. The wolf was a caged storm behind my ribs, snarling at the cowardice of the man who led him.
I was scrubbing the carbon off a piston head with a wire brush, my movements mechanical and violent, when a shadow fell across the workbench.
"You look like s**t, Alpha."
I didn't need to look up to know it was Ezra. His scent was always the same—dry parchment and the cold, ozone tang of someone who spent too much time whispering in the ears of the Council. He leaned against a support pillar, tossin
