The pack was tense, almost unbearably so. Each day dragged on, and the absence of Evelyn made gaping wounds that had been festering for years bleed again. The war had ended, but the scars still bled red.

Sitting on the steps of his cottage, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed, Marcus had hardly spoken to anyone since Evelyn had left. Any conversation would end in an argument, each attempt to cheer him up reduced to silence. He was awake, barely eating. Existing was just about what he did. He was angry that Evelyn chose to leave, again but he missed her dearly. What could he do? Go against his...