She sat down opposite him on the bed, leaving a careful distance between them. It wasn't far enough. “Please,” she said. “I want to understand you. I’m supposed to help you, Aaron. I can’t do that if I don’t know what’s under all of… this.” Her hand flicked toward him, taking in the lazy smirk, the easy posture—the armor.
He let out a slow breath, staring at his hands. Scarred knuckles. Blood that never really washed off. “You ever seen a pack wiped out in under an hour?” I asked. She went still. “No.” His voice was soft. “Lucky you.” The words came out flat. Distant. But his body remembered—the scent of burning fur and flesh. The way screams cut off when the air leaves a throat.
“I was fifteen,” he said. “Old enough to fight, not old enough to understand what we’d done to piss off a kin
