The village is too quiet when we arrive.
Flynn's Inn sits at the heart of the old quarter, a stone building that's weathered centuries of storms. Moira Flynn meets us at the door, her face creased with worry. Behind her, I catch a glimpse of a small girl with dark curls clutching a stuffed rabbit.
"They're coming, aren't they?" Moira asks. "That's why you're here."
"Yes." I don't lie to her. "We're going to keep you safe."
"The child," Jax says quietly. "What's her name?"
"Nessa." Moira's hand trembles as she touches the doorframe. "Her parents died last year. Car accident."
Through my connection to the storm, I feel it—the gathering pressure. Weather that has nothing to do with nature and everything to do with the power coiling in my chest. My wolf paces beneath my skin, ready. Eager.
"Eliza, upstairs with them," I order. "Jax and I will take the perimeter."
She starts to argue, then sees something in my face that stops her. Instead, she nods and slips inside, her hand briefly squeezing mine. Through our bond, her determination pulses like a second heartbeat.
Don't you dare die on me, Declan MacRae.
Not planning on it.
But as Jax and I take our positions—him by the front entrance, me circling around back—my radio explodes with static.
"Contact north!" Rafe's voice, tight with exertion. "Four shifters, maybe five. I'm engaged."
"South under attack," Kian reports. "At least six. They brought boats and firepower."
"Western cove compromised," Grayson growls. "They're using silver. I need...” His transmission cuts off.
My blood turns to ice. Silver means Connor's not taking chances. He's throwing everything at this.
"Finn, go west," I snap. "Grayson needs backup now."
"On it."
Then I smell them. Wolves. Multiple packs, their scents foreign and aggressive. Connor must have called in mercenaries—shifters with no loyalty to Skara, just to gold and blood.
"Jax." My voice drops to a rumble. "We've got company."
"How many?"
I close my eyes, letting my senses expand. Six. No—eight. They're surrounding the inn from multiple directions, coordinating their approach. Professional. Trained.
"Too many," I admit.
Jax's laugh is low and dark. "Good. I was getting bored."
The first wolf bursts from the alley between buildings—a massive grey male with scarred flanks. He doesn't hesitate, just launches straight for the inn's back door.
I shift.
The transformation ripples through me like lightning, bones restructuring, muscle mass expanding. My clothes tear away as my wolf surges forward—black as a storm cloud, large enough that my shoulder reaches a man's chest height. Power courses through me, wild and electric.
I meet the grey male mid-leap. We collide in a tangle of fangs and fury. He's strong, experienced, but I'm the Storm Alpha. My territory. My mate inside that building.
I'm rage incarnate.
My jaws close on his throat. Not to kill—not yet. A warning. He thrashes, claws raking my shoulder, but I hold firm until he whimpers submission. Then I throw him aside and face the others.
