KAT
The Last Prime
Alaska hits different than Kentucky—colder, sharper, like the air itself carries teeth that haven't been filed down by civilization. The tarmac stretches dark beneath our feet, lit by floodlights that turn everything silver-blue, and beyond the compound's edges, wilderness presses close enough that I can smell pine and snow and something older that makes the hair on my neck stand straight.
The Wolf King stands fifty feet away, and every instinct I've developed in twenty-eight years of surviving says run.
Not because he threatens. Because he exists at scale that makes my brain struggle to process him as real. Seven feet of muscle and power wrapped in human skin that barely contains what lives beneath, wearing jeans and flannel like some lumberjack fantasy except nothi
