79. (Clay POV)

We stormed back into the house, our collective anger a living, breathing entity. I felt it seep into the walls, heard it echo in the slam of the door behind us. Luke was a step ahead of me; he balled his fist and smashed it into the wall with a guttural roar. Plaster cracked. He turned, his eyes ablaze, and took out his fury on a table next, sending it crashing to the floor. Another swing of his fist found another wall.

Inside, a war raged. I was grappling with an urge so strong it felt like a primal force, elemental in its ferocity. I wanted Adam's life; I wanted to see the light extinguish in his eyes, wanted to hear the ragged, futile gasps for breath as I choked the last remnants of life from him. I'd never considered myself a murderer, but what I felt now—this visceral need for retribution—had me questioning every moral code I'd ever followed.

I glanced at Luke, who was taking deep, shuddering breaths, trying to rein in his emotions. He was at a precipice, and I knew that his fat