From where I crouched beneath the window, I could hear everything clearly, every word carrying the weight of tension thick enough to choke on.
"Elliot, I remember holding you when you were just a child," the man said, his voice softening as if trying to wrap itself in false warmth. "More than twenty years have passed. You've grown into the head of the Presgrave pack. I'm proud of you."
My wolf bristled.
There was something wrong with the way he spoke—too smooth, too calculated. It wasn't pride. It was manipulation.
"Do your uncle a favor," he continued, pressing on when Elliot didn't respond. "Let me see your grandmother. Just ten minutes."
Silence stretched for a breath.
Then Elliot spoke again.
"Let me say it one more time. Get out."
His voice was ice.
Not raised, not loud—but absolute. The kind of command that carried the full authority of an Alpha who didn't need to prove anything.
