Marcus and Dante walked side by side in silence, the faint crunch of gravel beneath their boots the only sound between them. Their shirts clung to their sweat-dampened skin, the sting of fresh bruises already fading as their werewolf healing began to work.
Marcus wiped his forehead with the back of his arm, his breathing now steady. Ahead, the packhouse loomed—proud and timeless at the heart of the territory.
He did miss the old Estate in the City, but it had too many memories. Marcus enjoyed the freedom their new territory gave them, it was safe and secluded from human eyes.
Tall, arched windows caught the sun, reflecting slivers of the forest and sky. Ivy crept up one side of the stone façade, its green fingers curling toward the wrought-iron balconies.
From inside, the quiet murmur
