Noah's POV
On the morning after the execution of Alpha Martin Leif Whittaker of Lykandor, the heavens break open and spill all their contents.
Rain lashes the Big House like the goddess herself is weeping. Like the moon couldn't bear the weight of last night and cracked in two.
Oliver makes it through the night without an accident—some small mercy—and I wake with Logan in my arms.
He's still asleep, his face pressed into the hollow of my throat. Even in rest, he looks wrecked. Red-rimmed eyes. A furrowed brow. Lips slightly parted around shallow breaths. His face carries a certain heaviness, like he's a character from some myth of old; a battle scarred wolf carrying the world on his shoulders.
His breath stutters every now and then, like he's caught in a dream he can't claw his way out of. His brow twitches, jaw clenches around the dried tears down the sides of his face.
