Breaking into the packhouse isn’t as hard as it should be.
Apparently, when your Alpha’s half-dead from a supernatural stab wound, security gets a little… distracted.
I slip past the front guards with a tray of fake soup, which, for the record, is just water and an onion in a bowl. “Hospital delivery.” I tell them sweetly. “He’s on a strict diet of disappointment and moral ambiguity.”
They don’t even check. Idiots.
Once inside, I ditch the tray and head for the basement stairs. The air grows colder with every step, carrying that faint metallic tang I’ve learned to associate with trouble.
The archives are buried deep beneath the packhouse. Rows of old shelves and cabinets filled with dusty ledgers, maps, and records of wolves long dead. I flick on a flashlight and mutter to myself, “If
