I found him in the living room.
The space was too large, too grand for one man, and yet it was filled with him. The silence felt heavy, broken only by the low murmur of his voice. For some reason, I had expected others to be there—his pack, his men, someone—but it was only him.
Lorenzo.
He sat on the giant arched sofa, his body bent forward, his elbow resting on his knee while one hand rubbed his brow over and over. His phone was pressed tightly to his ear, his deep voice carrying words I couldn’t understand in that strange, ancient wolf tongue of his.
The waning afternoon sun poured in through the blinds, striping his figure in light and shadow. He looked… tired. Not weak, no—Lorezo could never be weak—but vulnerable in a way that startled me. Yet even in his weariness, there was some
