Evander's POV
The night smelled of iron and smoke—blood that wasn't mine.
I sat in the quiet of the lower hall, the lanterns swaying faintly above, casting pale yellow shadows across the concrete floor. The warehouse felt hollow. Even the air held its breath, like the walls themselves understood that we'd lost too many men tonight.
The silver bullet had gone clean through my arm. A shallow wound, nothing vital, but silver had a way of lingering. It wasn't just pain—it was insult. It burned long after it stopped bleeding.
I tore another strip from the gauze and wrapped it tight, my fingers steady, efficient. There was no reason to call for help. I didn't trust anyone else to touch my blood.
Around me, my men worked in grim silence. They were strong, disciplined, trained to bury grief behind obedience. But I could feel it—the pulse of sorrow beneath the surface, the grief that hummed like a heartbeat through the pack bond.
They'd lost brothers tonight.
