I couldn’t remember the last time Hawke and I had a conversation. He was Raymond’s son, the guy my father had left in charge when he went off on his travels. Raymond had been holding the pack together and Hawke had been helping.

Why was he so angry at me?

“What happened to your arms?” I asked as I rubbed my temples. My headache was going away quickly.

“Like you don’t know!” he growled, spitting on the ground at my feet.

“I really don’t,” ...