Mary Ann’s POV
I could not stop looking at the scratches on Modric’s neck.
They were not deep. Three thin red lines disappeared beneath the collar of his shirt, fresh enough that the skin around them was still slightly raised. They might have looked harmless to anyone else.
To me, they confirmed every question he had refused to answer.
The perfume on the blanket.
The secret phone calls.
The truck leaving the pack grounds after midnight.
The way he returned near dawn, distracted and carrying the scent of a woman who did not live in the Alpha house.
I had spent weeks telling myself there could be another explanation. Patrol duties. Private meetings. Pack security. Matters connected to Ironclaw that I had no right to question.
But branches did not leave marks like that.
Neither did
