Elara POV:
Rourke’s office has always felt more like a war room than a place for paperwork.
The desk bears the scars of years of use, its edges worn smooth where hands have rested through long nights of strategy and quiet decision-making. Shelves line the walls, heavy with old ledgers, weathered maps, and artifacts that hold more memory than decoration. The window behind the desk overlooks the pack grounds, lending the room a sense of watchfulness rather than privacy.
It smells of ink and leather, and something faintly metallic. It resonates power lived in, not displayed.
I pause just inside the doorway, letting the familiarity settle around me before I step fully into the room. My wolf shifts beneath my skin, alert but steady, as if she understands the weight this space carries.
Rour
