Declan arrived fifteen minutes after Rose placed the call. He pulled his dark SUV up the long drive, headlights slicing through the gathering mist. Deacon stood at the threshold, Luna at his side, her ears pinned back but her growl gone—replaced now by wary silence. The air still carried the sharp tang of blood, thick and unmistakable.
Deacon stepped back as his twin brother approached. Declan took one look at the figure on the doorstep and let out a low whistle. He crouched next to the body, taking in the extent of the damage—shredded clothing, broken limbs, and gashes that looked like they came from claws, not blades.
"Well," Declan muttered dryly, "where’s a werewolf when you need one to sniff out whoever did this?"
Deacon didn’t respond right away. His eyes were locked on the man’s
