Ian had barely hit the stairs when his phone buzzed to life.
He glanced at the screen—"my bound one"—and something thick and woolly clogged his chest, an itch he couldn't scratch.
Thumb hovering to answer, Clara snatched it right out of his paw.
Her face soured fast, and she killed the power with a jab. "VIPs are inbound—let's hustle downstairs."
Ian nodded, hesitant, his steps dragging like lead. Before descending, he couldn't help stealing a glance back at the room where they'd locked Tina away.
His gut twisted uneasy, but hell if he could pin why.
Lately, the pack office's been hit with some phantom crisis—cash flow strangled tight, banking on a Quinn pack alliance to claw through.
Tina picking this fight now? Straight-up sabotage.
He'd warned her a dozen times over; she blew 'e
