***BLAKE***

The stranger kept staring at Logan’s body with a flat expression, eyes cold like death itself—before his gaze slid to me.

“Who’s the boy to you?” he asked.

His voice was calm. Too calm. Like he’d seen bodies fall a thousand times and stopped being bothered by it.

My throat locked. I looked at Logan again. His shirt stained with dirt, his hair stuck to his forehead, the two puncture wounds on his neck still dripping blood. My brother. My little brother. The one who ...