RAFAEL POV

The war map stretched before me like a battlefield painted in blood.

Pins marked rogue sightings along our borders. Red strings connected their movements, chaotic, unpredictable, like rats scrambling for crumbs.

I rubbed a hand down my face, the stubble on my jaw scratching my palm. I hadn't slept. Didn't need to. Rage was a better fuel than any fucking rest.

I leaned over the map, palms braced against the table. I was fucking falling apart, and I needed to clear my goddamn head.

The Pack house, with its stone walls and the scent of pine and earth, was a cold comfort. It was supposed to feel like...