Like something patient in the dark.
And for the first time in my life, I don’t know what I’m walking toward.
The mountains swallow us whole, and somewhere in the trees, something moves parallel to the road.
Tracking.
Watching.
Waiting for what comes next.
Chapter 4
Nadia
I move through shadow and silence, tracking the road from the high ridgeline. The convoy is a distant rumble below, engines grinding through roads carved into the mountain’s flank. Snow mutes my steps. My breath comes steady despite hours of running.
The odd heat from earlier has faded—tucked away beneath focus and fury.
Chance’s killer is on his way to sanctuary.
Not if I finish it here.
The wolf prowls just beneath my skin, patient now that prey is close. Every sense extends outward: wind direction, scent markers, the exact distance between me and the road below. Two hundred yards. Maybe less.
Close enough.
I pause behind an outcrop of granite, muscles tense, watching the convoy navigate another hairpin turn. Headlights sweep pale across snow. Everything precise. Routine.
Then the wind shifts.
It comes from downslope—a chemical sting that hits the back of my throat like acid. Propellant. Explosive residue. Wrong for this terrain, this altitude.
The fur along my arms stands straight.
Trap.
I don’t think. I move.
The ridge drops away steeply beneath my feet. I hit the slope running, snow spraying behind me in white plumes. Tree branches whip past. My lungs burn. The wolf surges forward, lending speed I shouldn’t have in human form.
Light shatters the dusk.
The blast punches through my chest hard enough to knock the air from my lungs. I stumble, catch myself against a tree trunk, ears ringing so loud the world goes silent.
Then sound rushes back: gunfire cracking sharply, screams cut short, the metallic shriek of twisting metal.
I push off and sprint downhill.
The lead vehicle is sideways across the road, flames pouring from the engine block. The transport van—histransport—has been forced into the cliff wall, rear axle crumpled. The third vehicle sits intact but smoking, doors hanging open, bodies sprawled in snow.
My wolf senses sort details faster than conscious thought: Syndicate scent signatures mixing with Aurora’s, dragon flame scorching the air, spilled fuel spreading dark across white ground.
Adrenaline wipes everything else clean.
I burst from the tree line as debris settles.
A Syndicate operative swings his rifle toward the wreckage of the transport van. I’m faster. My shoulder hits him mid-torso with enough force to crack ribs. We go down together. Snow sprays. His weapon skitters away. I don’t reach for it—just drive my knee into his sternum and feel something give. Crush.
