Alpha Dax's P.O.V
I hate leaving her.
The scent she left on my sheets is still in my head.
Mine.
But Ken wouldn’t shut up on the phone, so now I’m standing in his office instead of where I really want to be.
He leans back in his chair, one ankle on his knee, but the smirk isn’t there yet. His expression is sharp, businesslike.
“I called you because we’ve got a problem at the southern border,” he says, tossing a folder across the desk. “Two patrols reported the same thing—rogue scents, but not the usual kind. They’re masking better.”
And just like that, he manages to surprise me again. No other Alpha would have been able to pick up on that, but Ken wasn’t just another Alpha—he was my best friend, though we’d met in the worst way possible.
My psycho father had kidna
