But there are more. Footsteps crunch behind me. I turn to see two more humans approach, one from the east, another from the west. They planned for resistance and came prepared.
Good. Let them come.
Rage ignites in my chest, hot and dark. But I hold it back. I need to stay in control long enough to eliminate the threats and get to Anna.
The mercenary on my left gets off a shot that grazes my shoulder. I barely feel it. I break his arm, take his weapon and use it to drop his partner. The fifth mercenary tries to run away and I chase him down, slamming him into a tree trunk hard enough to crack the bark.
And then I hear it.
A gunshot from inside the cabin.
Anna.
For one terrible second, I can’t breathe, think or move. Then I tear through the front door, ripping it clean off its hinges.
The scene inside stops me cold.
One mercenary is on the ground, blood spreading beneath him. Anna stands in the bedroom doorway, Glock raised, hands trembling but steady. My female’s face is pale and her eyes are wide, but she’s alive.
Alive.
“Center mass,” she breathes. “Like you taught me.”
Pride surges through me so fierce it nearly brings me to my knees. My female is incredibly brave. She shot a man to protect herself and didn’t hesitate.
“Anna.” Her name comes out rough, broken.
“Behind you,” she cries out.
I spin.
The sixth mercenary—I miscounted, there were six—stands in the ruined doorway. He’s holding something small and cylindrical in his hand. I recognize it instantly from Kelt’s briefing. Dammit. A scent bomb. “No?—”
He throws it directly at my face.
The canister explodes on impact, spraying a fine mist into my nose, my mouth, my eyes. I choke on it, stumbling backward. The chemical burns as it enters my lungs, my bloodstream, my brain.
And then Anna’s scent hits me.
But it’s wrong. Twisted. Her normal sweetness is laced with something acrid and artificial. Synthetic terror pheromones designed to trigger every protective instinct in my body at once. My brain screams a single, overwhelming message:
MATE IN DANGER. PROTECT. KILL.
The world goes red.
I can’t think or reason. There’s only rage and the primal drive todestroyanything that threatens what’s mine. The mercenary who threw the bomb doesn’t even have time to react. I’m on him before his hand drops back to his side. My claws—when did my claws extend?—tear through his tactical vest like paper. His ribs crack under my grip.
He screams. Then he doesn’t.
I stalk through the cabin, overturning furniture, following the scent of fear and sweat and gunpowder. There must be more outside. I’ll tear them apart. I’ll?—
“Keric.”
The voice cuts through the red haze. Familiar. Important.
“Keric, please.”
I whip around, snarling, and find the source.
