Two weeks had passed since we returned from the Deadlands.
The Blackwood Estate had transformed from a quiet, solemn military compound into a bustling, loud, and incredibly chaotic home. The twenty-two rescued children were everywhere, running through the halls, playing tag in the gardens, and sneaking extra cookies from Martha’s kitchen.
Caleb’s ribs were almost fully healed, leaving only the silver scars on his neck. My pregnancy cravings were still in full swing (yesterday, it was scrambled eggs with chocolate syrup, which made even the feral wolves of the Forgotten Pack gag). And my restaurant—which we had officially named The Hearth—was undergoing massive renovations at the edge of the woods.
Everything was settling into a beautiful rhythm.
Except for Tyson.
The giant Gamma
