Lyra’s POV
Marcello had gotten into trouble with his godfather,serves him right. I tried not to laugh too loudly, biting my lip as Marcello’s godfather launched into some wise old-man speech about "honor" and "pack unity"—the usual werewolf drama, seasoned with a side of testosterone. Vincenzo stood off to the side, arms folded like a sulking teen, while Marcello glare daggers at him with a fury I hadn’t seen.
Men.
I said it silently, internally, but the word carried a weight of exasperation—laced with something I couldn’t name. Dread, maybe?
“No, tell me—you got a problem with Lyra being my mate?” Marcello growled, shoving Vincenzo square in the chest.
Vincenzo didn’t budge, only scoffed and tilted his head with the lazy arrogance of someone who enjoyed this too much.
That was… weir
