Matthew's P.O.V
The second I stepped outta the car, that salty sea air hit me square in the face. It was sharp, almost bitter. Nights at the docks always carried this heavy mix, cold wind, rust, diesel, and tonight, it was worse. Tension hung thick in the air, like fog. My wolf warriors were posted all around the warehouse, eyes sharp, bodies alert. As I walked past, they parted like water, heads bowed just enough to show respect. Loyalty. Submission.
The old iron door groaned when I shoved it open. Inside, a single dim bulb swung from the ceiling, casting shadows over the guy tied to the metal chair. Kayle Howard. His face was a mess, bruises, busted lip, hair all over the place. But his eyes? Still burning. Still trying to play tough, like he hadn't lost everything.
I stopped a few feet in front of him. Didn't say a word. Just stared. My chest felt tight, rage, disgust, pure loathing. This bastard had crossed a line he should've never even looked at.
