The sound of a gunshot in a confined space is deafening.
It’s not a bang; it’s a concussion that slaps against the eardrums and rattles the teeth.
Jax doesn't hesitate. He kicks the back door open, leveling his handgun at the sky. The drone hovers in the mist, its red eye blinking a steady, rhythmic threat.
Crack.
The shot goes wide. The drone jinks left, a sudden, jerky movement that defies standard aerodynamics. It’s being piloted by someone with reflexes, someone anticipating the trajectory.
Crack. Crack.
He fires again. The third bullet clips a rotor. The machine spins wildly, emitting a high-pitched mechanical scream, and smashes into the mud ten yards from the porch.
"One down," I whisper, my hands gripping the doorframe.
"Not enough," Jax growls.
He doesn't lower the gun. He tracks the tree line.
A low, synchronized hum vibrates the air. Two more shapes rise from the cypress canopy. They are sleeker, faster than thefirst. They split up, banking hard—one left, one right—flanking the cabin in a pincer maneuver.
"They’re triangulating," I say, the analysis automatic even as fear spikes my adrenaline. "They’re setting up a crossfire zone."
Jax curses. He fires at the left one, but it climbs rapidly, out of range of the handgun.
"Too fast," he snaps. He drops the magazine, ejecting it, but he doesn't reload. He tosses the gun onto the porch floorboards.
"Jax?"
"Go inside, Miranda. Bolt the door."
"What are you doing?"
He doesn't answer. He vaults over the railing, clearing the stairs entirely. He lands in the mud with a heavy, wet thud.
He doesn't stop moving. He tears his shirt open, buttons popping and scattering like hail. He kicks off his boots.
And then, physics breaks.
I’ve seen it once before, through a rain-streaked windshield in a moment of panic. But seeing it now... seeing it from ten feet away... it stops my breath.
It’s violent. It’s not magic; it’s biology rewriting itself in real-time. His spine arches, cracking audibly as vertebrae expand and realign. Muscles tear and knit back together with a wet, sickening sound. Fur erupts from his skin, black as oil.
He falls forward onto his hands, but by the time they hit the mud, they are paws. Massive, clawed, lethal paws.
The Wolf shakes its massive head, a spray of rainwater flying from its ruff. He is enormous. A creature of shadow and muscle, built for nothing but the hunt.
He launches himself.
He doesn't run; he explodes from a standstill. He hits the first pylon of the cabin and uses it as a launchpad, scrambling up the wood with terrifying verticality. He leaps from the roof edge, intercepting the low-flying drone on the right.
His jaws snap shut around the chassis.
Crunch.
Metal crumples. Sparks shower down like fireworks. The Wolf twists in mid-air, spitting the wreckage into the swamp, and lands on all fours with a grace that shouldn't belong to something that heavy.
The second drone buzzes, climbing higher, trying to retreat.
