SEVEN WOLVES
The shoulder ached, but the mind was clear.
Draven had cleared him for full activity that morning—light sparring permitted, no restricted movement, the healing finally outpacing the damage.
Damon rotated the joint as he walked, testing it, feeling the pull of scar tissue that would never quite be what it was before the bullet.
The wound had been clean, the surgery competent, the recovery faster than expected for a wolf his age. But there would always be this reminder.
A slight stiffness in the morning. A hesitation before reaching overhead. A vulnerability that hadn't existed before Garrett's hired guns had found their mark.
He didn't care. Function mattered more than perfection. And he had function enough to do what came next.
