Grumbling under my breath, I follow the Rockcastle Alpha out into the living room where two praetorians have Doyle by the arms. One of them is the woman who answered the door and the other is an older man I haven’t met.
The woman jerks her chin up in greeting. “We’ve got it from here, Solomon.”
“Thank you, Yang.” He nods at the man. “Smith.”
The two praetorians start escorting a strangely passive Doyle toward the front door as Yang says, “Cormac Doyle, you are under arrest for kidnapping, assault, trafficking, illegal gambling, and exposing humans to shifters.” She snickers. “There are probably a few more things to tack on later, but I can’t think of them right now.”
Smith opens the front door, and they tug Doyle outside. Something they see just past the doorway causes the praetorians’ steps tofalter. Doyle uses that split-second hesitation to break free of their hold, pulling his arms free and running forward.
I’m not sure what’s going on, but that asshole is absolutelynotgetting away.
I sprint out the door, pushing past the two praetorians still standing on either side of the doorway, then freezing in place when I take in the scene outside.
Doyle didn’t make it far. He’s on his back in the gravel, only a few feet off the porch, with a huge golden wolf holding him down, one I’d recognize anywhere:Blake.
Twenty-Nine
Blake
AsIcatchsightof Doyle, the rest of the world falls away and a red sheen falls over my vision, my wolf surging forward, taking over…
Fight.
Blood.
Death.
KILL.
Thirty
Neil
BlakeloomsoverDoyle,visibly seething with rage, every muscle coiled with tension and his bared teeth only inches from the older alpha’s face. Shock flickers over Doyle’s face for half a second before he roars and shoves the wolf off him.
The motion has enough power behind it that Blake skids backward across the gravel at least a foot, the distance giving Doyle enough space to shift into a large gray wolf. He shakes off his clothes and bares his teeth at my golden mate, growling low in his chest.
Blake mirrors him, lowering his head as his lips curl away from his teeth. He snarls, spittle dripping from his mouth, and feints a lunge. All his attention is on Doyle. His anger is an almost physicalthing, and his eyes are blank, cold, cruel even. There’s no emotion, no humanity. NoBlake. Only the wolf.
This is the closest to truly feral I’ve ever seen him.
My body goes cold, mouth dry as my gaze darts to Solomon, then to the two praetorians. None of them are trying to step in, but Solomon in particular is studying Blake very intensely, eyes narrowed as if cataloging every piece of evidence, every marker that screamsferal.
At some unknown or unconscious signal, the two wolves go into motion. They leap at each other, a whirlwind of fangs and claws as they grapple on the ground. The fight is dirty, fast, and brutal, each one struggling to gain the upper hand.
A loud yelp sends a shard of ice into my stomach as Doyle jumps on top of Blake and drives him to the ground, teeth bared and aiming for his neck. Blake kicks up with his hind legs, trying to tear at Doyle’s belly with his claws as Doyle leans down, mouth open, teeth gleaming, closer and closer to Blake’s vulnerable throat.
But Blake has literally been fighting for his life for years and he’s not out yet.
With a sudden burst of movement, Blake twists his body out from underneath Doyle, flipping them so Doyle lands on his side. He pounces and snaps at Doyle’s throat, but Doyle manages to kick him off and scramble to his feet.
Doyle eyes Blake for a moment before glancing to either side as if looking for an escape route. His eyes land on me, something indecipherable in their depths, and then he does absolutely the last thing I would’ve expected: he shifts.
“You see,” he snarls, gesturing toward Blake pacing and growling a couple of feet in front of him. “It’s clearly feral. By law, it should be put down.” He looks to the praetorians and snaps, “Well? Do your fucking job already.”
My heart about stops in my chest at his words, but the praetorians don’t move.
Doyle sneers at them, then sends a poisonous glare my way. “I’ll win one way or another. A Pyrrhic victory is still a victory.” He lifts his chin and holds his arms out from his sides, then takes a single step toward the growling golden wolf. “How about it, mongrel? Prove you aren’t feral.”
