At that moment, the world slowed to just the two of them. A shot rang out as a massive black wolf tackled Axel to the ground, ripping out his throat. My brother lay in a pool of blood, dead. Wrecker had been tackled to the ground. When he came back into camera view, he was standing with Menace by his side, and a very naked Bronc had joined them.
“WRECKER?”
I closed my eyes and waited for his voice.
“I’m here, Wren. I’m sorry.” His voice was barely above a whisper.
“Don't be. I'm so glad Bronc and Menace were there."
It was over.
The world outside was silent, the sun rising over the smoldering remains of the last enemy who ever thought they could break us.
And I was still here.
Alive.
Chapter 29
Wrecker
Dawn cut through the kitchen window with the flat, expressionless light of a morgue. The clubhouse stank of blood and cordite and burnt plastic, and the HVAC system did nothing to cut the cold. I ran my hand down the side of my face, and it came back streaked with gray-black, which could have been soot or the dried remains of someone who used to have a name. The comms hissed low, waiting for the next alert, but no one had the energy to even hope for trouble.
We’d taken the field and held it. Our plan had worked perfectly. The bodies of Greenbriar’s last line—Dagger, Vex, Rook—were still cooling by the compound gate, tangled in a pile of their own limbs like trash after a tornado. They’d tried to run, but Arsenal’s shooting had cut them down before they’d made the first tree line. There was a weird symmetry in it, the three of them together, mouths open in the same shocked O, staring up at the gray morning like they couldn’t believe it was over.
Inside, the war room, the air felt like relief. Every chair was taken, most by people who looked exhausted. Pearl was doling out food and whiskey, hugging every wolf who’d fought so bravely. Maddie sat in the far corner, arms wrapped aroundher knees, head buried, rocking in time to her own heartbeat. Menace was up and moving, but every step looked like it was paid for in small, hard currency. He couldn’t get to Savannah fast enough. Bronc had his arm around Juliet, who was the only one not drinking. She looked clear-eyed, bright, like the only person in the room still running on hope.
Parker took the comms table, headset clamped over her pink-highlighted hair, voice tight and clear as she ran the roll call. “Arsenal, status?”
A cough, then: “Still here. North ridge. It’s quiet.”
“Gunner?”
A pause. “South wall, present and accounted for. No movement since last sweep.”
“Papa, check in.”
Static. She waited.
“Papa, it’s Parker. You copy?”
More static.
Juliet looked up, a tremor in her hands.
“Papa, come on. Respond.”
I felt my gut twist. I set my coffee down and stood, pushing past a pair of patched-up prospects slumped in the hallway.
“Try again,” Bronc said, voice soft.
“Papa, this is Parker. Please check in.”
The silence went from annoying to terrifying.
I broke into a run, out the back door and into the yard. The snow had gone to slush, tinged red in patches where the wounded or the dying had crawled. I could see people gathering in the compound square, shoulders hunched and faces drawn. No one was talking. The sky had lightened to the color of old newsprint, and the first crows were already picking over the meat.
Pearl was there first, arms wrapped around her midsection, eyes scanning the horizon. Arsenal limped up, gun cradled in one arm. He didn’t speak.
