Jace
Eli is late.
Again.
It’s the third morning in a row I’ve been standing on this training field, waiting for him while the rest of the trainees stretch and pair off.
I’ve already run them through the warm-up twice just to burn off the restless energy building in my muscles. The autumn air bites sharper this morning, and I can see each breath curl in front of the trainees like smoke.
And still, no Eli.
I don’t need to guess why. The explanation is written all over him before he even makes it down the slope from the Alpha’s cabin.
He’s walking like someone’s worked him over and left him feeling very satisfied about it.
His shirt’s hanging open at the throat, the hem skewed, and there’s a faint red mark just under his jaw that’s definitely not from sparring.
I can see the shadow
