The drive back to the Alpha's estate is a hollow pilgrimage. The cold of the night air rushing through the vents doesn't have an effect when it comes to the burning acid of grief that fills Amias's throat and sinuses. He is numb, yet every inch of his skin feels raw, sensitized to the point of screaming. The rhythmic thump-thump of his tires on the pavement sounds less like travel and more like a dirge marking the burial of his last shreds of hope.
He drives past the iron gates, which swing open with a silent, imposing reverence. The Alpha's estate stands ahead, a sprawling structure of dark stone and polished timber smelling of power, expensive whiskey, and old, entrenched secrets. This is the house that holds their titles, their wealth, and the twisted geometry of the Bellamy family: one father, three mothers, two daughters, and four sons (all rivals).
