Jake sat in his office, the room dim except for the lamp on his desk. A half-empty glass of bourbon rested in his hand, the bottle within arm’s reach. He hadn’t bothered turning on the overhead light. Darkness suited his mood.
He’d lost control… again. The memory of blood on Lyra’s lips, the bruises on her wrists, made his jaw clench. He hadn’t meant to hurt her. He hadn’t even realized his fangs had come out until he saw the look on her face. Not fear. Not pain. Just… resignation. Like she expected it. Like being hurt was normal.
He tossed back the rest of the bourbon. The burn was a poor substitute for the guilt twisting in his gut.
The door creaked open without a knock.
Jake didn’t look up. “Unless the pack is on fire, come back later.”
“Nope,” Callan said, stepping inside and shut
