They buried me seven years ago.
They put my name on a stone in the Ironridge cemetery, and I let them. I had a war to fight. A syndicate to burn. Brothers to avenge.
Seven years later, the job is done. And I have come home to claim what’s mine.
The soft-voiced bookseller sleeping in my grandmother’s shop — the woman who doesn’t lock her doors, who doesn’t know what runs in my blood, who doesn’t know the ground beneath her feet is sacred to my pack — is the reason every choice I made in the dark kept me alive.
Mine. The wolf inside me knew it before she ever spoke my name.
Now the men who tried to kill me are coming for her. They don’t know what I am. They don’t know what she is.
How far will a dead man go to protect what he came home for?
