Inside the Ross Pack house, the walls were quiet, thick with the weight of what had happened. Every wolf, was in the hall. all silent all waiting.
The scent of blood lingered faintly, sterile now, cleaned—but not forgotten.
Marcus stood at the end of the hallway outside the pack’s medical wing, arms folded tightly across his chest. His knuckles were raw. Not from a fight—but from clenching them too hard.
He stared through the window into the room where his father lay unconscious, his chest rising and falling in a shallow pace. Pale. Still. Too still.
Marcus could sense Dante’s approach, his footsteps soft but deliberate.
“You should sit,” Dante offered.
“I’m fine,” Marcus muttered.
“No, you’re not,” Dante replied. “But I didn’t come to argue.”
Marcus didn’t respond. His jaw worke
