The sound is loud, dry, and sickeningly satisfying. It’s the sound of his radius and ulna snapping like dry twigs.
The Hunter screams, dropping the knife. "What the?—"
I don't let him finish. I buck my hips, throwing his two-hundred-pound weight off me with a strength that shouldn't belong to a hundred-and-twenty-pound woman. He flies off me, crashing into the cast-iron stove with a heavy clang.
I scramble to my feet. I’m panting, but I’m not winded. I feel... exhilarated.
He struggles up, clutching his broken wrist, his eyes wide behind the mask. He lunges at me, desperate, swinging a clumsy fist.
I don't dodge. I moveintothe space.
Time seems to slow down. I see his fist coming in increments. I see the opening in his guard. I step inside it.
My hands... they feel strange. Hot. Heavy.
I strike.
I aim for his throat, my fingers curled.
But they aren't fingers anymore. My nails—which I keep short for work—have lengthened in seconds. They are hard, curved, and black as obsidian. They slice through the air with a hiss.
My hand connects with his neck.
It’s not a punch. It’s a slash.
My new claws shear through the tactical fabric of his collar, through skin, through muscle, and through the windpipe like wet paper. There is zero resistance.
Hot liquid sprays across my face—salt, copper, life.
The Hunter gurgles. He clutches his throat, blood pouring between his fingers in a dark torrent, his knees buckling. Hestares at me, shock replacing the aggression, as the light fades from his eyes.
He falls face-forward onto the floorboards. He twitches once. Then stops.
I stand over him, my chest heaving. I look down at my hands. They are coated in crimson to the wrists. My nails are long, curved talons, dripping.
I wait for the horror. I wait for the nausea, the guilt, the human reaction to taking a life violently.
It doesn't come.
Instead, I feel... calibrated. I feel efficient. The threat is removed. The variable is deleted. The predator inside me purrs, satisfied.
I wipe the blood from my cheek, my tongue darting out to catch a drop on my lip. It tastes sweet. Intoxicating.
"Power," I whisper, flexing my claws. The sensation is electric.
I turn toward the door, stepping over the body. I’m ready to find the next one. I’m ready to tear them apart until the swamp runs red.
A sound cuts through the roar of the battle outside.
Yelp.
It’s high-pitched. Young. A sound of pure, terrified agony that bypasses my ears and hits my soul.
I rush to the shattered doorframe, gripping the wood with my talons.
In the mud below, illuminated by the harsh, blinding glare of the floodlights, I see them. Twins—Jax’s young pack members.
One of them is down. A boy, barely sixteen, in his wolf form. His grey fur is matted with red. A Hunter stands over him, a serrated bayonet buried deep in the wolf’s flank.
