Mason paced the war room like a caged animal, his heavy boots thudding against the scarred wooden floor.
The overhead lights buzzed faintly, casting long shadows over the table strewn with maps, empty bottles, and half-finished reports. Jace sat at the head, arms crossed over his broad chest, cut patched with the club’s colors, his face a mask of controlled irritation.
“She’s hurt, Jace! Fluffy is f*****g terrified!” Mason’s voice cracked the air, raw and desperate.
He slammed both hands on the table, leaning in until his knuckles whitened. “She won’t stand near anyone for more than seconds. You think that’s hatred? That’s fear, bro…. Pure, bone-deep fear. Don’t give me that bullshit.”
Jace rubbed his jaw, eyes narrowing. “It’s Sage’s tantrum again. You know how she gets—”
“Tantrum?”
