Lorenzo
Morning at the lodge always carried its own weight—a mixture of the past night’s excesses and the new day’s demands. The air smelled of smoke, sweat, and pine, heavy with the echoes of men dragging themselves into motion. I paused at the hallway’s threshold, listening to the thumps, curses, and groans of my pack as they shuffled about, some regretting the whiskey they’d drowned themselves in last night.
Knox was already dressed for the day’s work, broad shoulders straining against his striped flannel, the fabric worn thin at the elbows. Overalls might have been a curse, but even wolves needed them when clearing underbrush. He looked like the picture of practicality—steady, reliable, the kind of wolf who carried the pack’s strength without complaint.
“You guys hitting the south q
