It’s been two weeks of pure hell.
I grab a couple bottles of whiskey from my personal stash and hunt down Leon. I find him in the training yards, overseeing the evening drills. When he sees my face—and the liquor—his expression doesn’t change.
“I need a drinking buddy,” I say without preamble, holding up a bottle in each hand.
Leon glances at the sun sinking toward the horizon, then back at me. We’ve done this enough times that he knows the routine. “Give me half an hour to finish up here.”
I nod and lean against the fence, watching him put the soldiers through their paces. A female soldier with auburn hair moves through the formations, and my hand tightens around one of the bottles before I force myself to look away. My wolf whines, fidgety and confused, but I shove the feelings down.
