"Three days"—that was how long I’d holed up in the spare bedroom of Carlo’s house. Food turned to ash on my tongue, every bite merging with my spit into a gritty, cement-like texture. My own skin felt foreign—itchy and suffocating—but I couldn’t bring myself to shift. The day after the fight, the pack held a ceremony for the fallen. I couldn’t attend. I couldn’t even get out of bed. Facing what I had lost felt impossible.
The grief was unbearable, and a small, wicked part of me hoped Alpha Leonardo was feeling every ounce of the agony crawling through my veins. After everything he’d done to me, he deserved to know what it felt like.
Carlo, Enrico, Vito, Sofia, and Chiara had all come to check on me that day. They didn’t push me to join the ceremony or drag me out of my cocoon of miser
