The pack did not sleep after the Trial.
They pretended to. Doors closed. Fires dimmed. Voices lowered. But beneath the quiet, the Blackclaw compound hummed with unrest, like a fault line waiting for the smallest pressure to split it wide open.
Selene felt it the moment she woke.
Her body ached deeply, the kind of pain that settled into the bones and refused to leave. Every muscle protested as she shifted on the bed, memories of claws and blood flashing sharp and vivid behind her eyes. For a heartbeat, she forgot where she was.
Then the scent wrapped around her.
Smoke. Pine. Iron.
She opened her eyes slowly.
Silas sat in a chair near the hearth, elbows braced on his knees, head bowed slightly as if he'd never moved from that spot. He wore no armor, no Alpha regalia—just dark trousers and a loose shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms.
Guarding.
The realization tightened something in her chest.
"How long have you been there?" she asked quietly.
