Black Claw: Bound by Fate
The sky above was dead white granite, moonsick and lidless, and beneath it, the last three wolves made a home out of nothing at all.
It went like this: Damon cooked whatever canned stuff they scored, always too much salt, and crunched numbers in the dust of the concrete floor, tallying lost bets and IOUs and the days since there’d been any word from above. Donovan set traps at the tunnel mouths, oiled the blade he’d scrounged, taught Elena to catch rats with her bare hands and clean them without flinching. Nights, they tangled on the cots, tried to map out how much pain a body could hold and still make it feel like love.
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