By the time Atticus and I get back to the packhouse the sun is already starting to sink, the light slanting low through the trees and stretching shadows across the front steps like long fingers reaching for something they cannot quite grab, and I know before we even open the door that Axel has already heard about George. There is a particular kind of tension in the air when one of the twins is furious and trying to hold it together, and the bond hums tight and sharp in my chest the second I cross the threshold.
Axel is in the living room, pacing like a caged animal, his shoulders rigid and his jaw clenched hard enough that I can practically feel the pressure of it through the room, and when his eyes land on me relief and rage crash together in a way that makes the furniture around him fee
