The heavy wooden door clicked shut behind Logan, but Tristan didn’t turn. His back was to the room, his hands braced on the edge of the desk, knuckles white with tension.
The silence stretched between them, broken only by the faint crackling of the fireplace. Liam knew better than to speak first when Tristan’s wolf was this close to the surface — the air itself seemed to ripple with suppressed rage, thick enough to choke on.
Finally, Tristan exhaled, a rough, ragged sound.
“She woke up screaming,” he said, voice low, almost hoarse. “She’s not just having nightmares, Logan. Something is inside her head — inside her.”
Logan stepped closer, his brows drawn into a deep frown. “The same presence from the clearing?”
Tristan’s jaw ticked, muscles flexing along the sharp line of his throat. “
