It coats my tongue every morning when I wake, settles heavy in my gut throughout the day, and follows me into restless sleep each night. No amount of whiskey burns it away. No amount of training beats it into submission.
It just sits there.
A constant weight pressing against my ribs.
Reminding me of the moment I became exactly what a lycan shouldneverbe.
Useless.
Frozen.
A guardian who couldn’t guard a damn thing.
I lean against the clubhouse wall, watching the sun bleed across the horizon in shades of amber and gold.
Two months since the battle.
Two months since Viktor’s death and Thanatos’ exile.
Two months since the Coven of Crows left us standing in a kill zone painted with blood and ash.
Two months since I failedhim.
The memory crashes over me in visceral detail, sharp and unforgiving.
Thanatos’ power slammed into me mid-leap, reality itself solidifying around my body like invisible chains. My muscles locked. My lungs seized. Every cell in my body was screaming to move, to fight, toprotect,while magic held me suspended in the air like a fly trapped in amber.
And I watched.
God help me, Iwatchedas Viktor drove that Original-forged blade into Crave’s chest. Once. Twice. Three times. Each strike punching through ribs that should have been invulnerable, spilling blood that should have stayed eternal.
My Alpha.
My brother.
The vampire I’ve been bound to for over two centuries, the one my family lineage has protected since the First Vampire rose from darkness.
Bleeding out.
Dying.
While I hung there, a puppet with cut strings, absolutely fucking helpless.
The lycan inside me howls at the memory, clawing against the cage of my human form.
It wants out.
Wants to run.
To hunt.
To tear something apart to prove we’re still capable of violence.
That we’re still worthy of the mantle we carry.
But what’s the fucking point?
When it mattered most, when Crave needed me, I was nothing.
