That man had died on a battlefield, cut down by a demon's curse that had shattered his knee beyond repair. The healers had done what they could. They had pieced him back together, mended the bones, repaired the tendons.
But some damage could not be undone, despite his wolf’s efforts to heal him.
“Damn,” he groaned, pressing the heel of his palm against his forehead. His inner wolf, Athos, whined in annoyance—a restless, angry sound that echoed through Attia's mind.
“f**k! I know,” Attia thought. “I know.”
He let out a long curse—low, guttural, filled with years of frustration. The sound reverberated through the empty office, swallowed by the thick walls and heavy books.
His mobile rang.
The shrill tone cut through the silence like a blade. Attia's eyes snapped open. He stared at the
