Williams didn't need to ask how Jorell had pulled off what he just claimed. No part of him questioned it, not even for a second. His mind was already racing, not with uncertainty, but with clarity, the kind that came only when the pieces finally aligned, even if what they revealed was ugly. Among all the alphas in the werewolf community, he alone—Williams—was the only one who didn't have a witch backing him up. He had never needed one. Witch blood already pulsed through his veins, weaving its ancient power through every fiber of his being. That gave him an edge.
Jorell and Casper were a different story. So were the others. They weren't like Williams. They leaned on witches. Strong, cunning ones. Some bound by blood, others by dark bargains. And now, hearing Jorell boast about what he had accomplished, Williams knew, without a shadow of doubt, that whatever Jorell had managed, he didn't do it alone. He had the help of a witch.
