Just as Devon had feared—there had been traces of something foreign in his blood. A rare flower. Poisonous to wolves.
Lycantros.
The name itself carried weight, once whispered in caution by elder wolves who had witnessed its deadly toll. Now, its very existence had been all but erased—burned from history, spoken only in the hush of dim-lit war chambers, a relic of an almost-forgotten past. The dose had been faint, subtle enough not to weaken him—he was Alpha, after all. But any other wolf? It would have locked their beast away, severing them from the very essence of what they were.
A slow, seething rage built within him. He clenched his fists, the tension coiling in his forearms. He knew exactly what the intention had been.
Someone had tried to lock his wolf.
And whoever had dared…
