Lucas’s POV
The fire in the den burns low, a weak glow that does nothing to ease the cold crawling through my bones. My ribs ache with every breath, the wound Amelia’s Alpha carved into me still refusing to knit properly. I hate that, it makes me feel weak, mortal, less than what I am. But it also feeds the anger. Anger sharpens me, keeps me alive.
Around me, the rogues keep their distance, patching wounds, whispering, their eyes flicking to me and away again. They know better than to disturb me when my mind is working. They can feel it, the storm gathering beneath my skin, the fury burning holes into my heart and soul.
I should have won. Amelia should be mine again. My pup should be in my arms when it is born. The key to rebuilding what was taken from me is my pup. Amelia is carrying
