Keith

My father’s office always feels too small when we’re in it together. The smell of old leather and pine oil clings to everything—the chairs, the maps on the wall, even the heavy drapes that guard the windows from the morning light. He sits behind his massive oak desk, fingers steepled, his sharp eyes fixed on me like he’s dissecting my every thought before I can speak it.

I pace the length of the room, trying to keep my thoughts straight. “I thought most of the Lycan lines would’ve died out by now,” I say finally, my voice low, controlled. “Except for ours, of course. We descend from the original...