Derek's POV
My office looked like a f*****g bomb had gone off. Ancient books of pack law—some older than the United States itself—lay scattered across my desk. Scrolls hung half-unrolled from the edges. My coffee had gone cold hours ago, forgotten during my frantic search for precedents.
The morning sun streamed through dusty blinds, highlighting the chaos. My ribs screamed with every breath—Scott's parting gift from that last "interrogation." Three cracked ribs, a dislocated shoulder, and enough bruises to make sitting uncomfortable. But I'd had worse.
The ceremony had to be perfect. No shortcuts, no "adaptations." Not this time.
"Burning the morning oil, I see."
I looked up to find Gregory watching me from the doorway, his weathered face etched with exhaustion.
"Someone has to make sure we do ……
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