“Gael?” “Yes, Alpha.” Everyone searches for the voice. I’d have thought he’d be in the infirmary, but he’s in his usual seat at B-roster table, though considerably worse for wear. His face is black and blue and swollen past all recognition. He’s upright, but he’s cradling his right arm to his chest. “There’s a seat open in A-roster.” Killian points to the metal folding chair across from Finn where Lochlan always sits. The pack mutters. For a moment, nothing happens. Then Gael’s seat screeches back, and he drags himself the few feet to resettle at the table of honor. Tye claps him on the back.
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