Rhys

I set the beam with a solid thud and wipe sweat from my brow with the back of my forearm. The scent of fresh-cut pine hangs thick in the air, sap sticky on my palms, sun beating down on the back of my neck. It’s good work. Honest. Repetitive. The kind that keeps my hands busy and my mind—mostly—out of trouble.

Mostly.

You’re lying, my Lycan rumbles, low and restless in the back of my skull. You’re counting minutes.

I bare my teeth in a grin that isn’t quite humor. I’m working, I tell him.

You’re racing, he counters. Pack hall. Lunch. Her.

Don't pretend I'm the only one...