Chapter Ninety eight

The air in the Pack House was thick with tension, a tangible force pressing down on the assembled pack members. The scent of fear and betrayal hung heavy, a chilling counterpoint to the roaring fire that blazed in the hearth, its flames casting flickering shadows across the faces gathered around the long oak table.

At the head of the table sat Mateo, his eyes like chips of obsidian, his jaw clenched in a tight line. His posture was rigid, back straight, hands clenched into fists on the polished tabletop. The leather of his gloves, usually a symbol of power and authority, seemed to constrict him now, like a suffocating cage. His hair, usually meticulously styled, was now ruffled, strands falling over his furrowed brow, revealing a flicker of vulnerability he rarely showed.

Around him sat the members of his cabinet, their faces a study in varying degrees of anxiety. Some, like the hulking figure of Silas, a muscle-bound warrior with a perpetual furrow in his brow, seemed to be bracing