The door closes behind Juan with a soft click that seems impossibly loud in the sudden quiet of the bedroom. He didn't want to leave me—the reluctance rolled off him in waves—but Cole's shout from downstairs carried enough urgency to override his protective instincts. I stand frozen for a moment, knife still clutched in my white-knuckled grip, listening to the symphony of violence playing throughout the house. My home. My pack. Under attack because of me.

Guilt flares briefly ...