Ezekiel moved through the crowd with practiced ease, his steps measured, his expression neutral, his gaze sharp and constantly shifting. To anyone watching, he was just another member of the security team—another body in black, standing at the edges, blending into the structure of the event like furniture. But inside, he was anything but calm.
The summit had drawn delegates from packs far and wide, alphas of varying strength and influence, along with their entourages, advisors, and consorts. The air was thick with power, tension, and unspoken competition. Even the laughter that drifted through the open space felt calculated, weighed, and sharpened with hidden intent.
Ezekiel was tired.
Not physically—his body had long been trained to endure far worse than this—but mentally. The kind of exhaustion that sat behind his eyes, heavy and persistent, the kind that no amount of sleep could fix.
Still, he stayed alert.
It was his job.
