By the time the final bell rings, my head is pounding.
We drive back toward the packhouse in silence, the afternoon sun low and harsh through the windshield, and I let myself breathe out slowly, grounding myself in the familiar rhythm of the road and the bond humming steady between us.
The moment we turn onto the pack’s main drive, I know something is wrong.
There are cars parked out front that don’t belong, dark and unmarked, and the guards at the gate are tense in a way that has nothing to do with pack business. Axel’s grip tightens on the steering wheel, his jaw setting as recognition hits.
“Human police,” he mutters.
My stomach drops.
They’re waiting.
We pull up slowly, deliberately, and the attention snaps to us immediately, two uniformed officers stepping forward as soon as we
