Good.
I step closer. “You don’t deserve to know any more.”
Something flickers across his face. Not fear. Just acknowledgment. But if he’s expecting a bullet in his head right now, he’s not going to get one.
I need this to be fair.
The word hangs over me.Fair.The thing the Syndicate didn’t give Chance when they ambushed him on a routine mission.The thing this man didn’t give any of them when he signed that order.
But I will. Because I’m not him. I’m not the Syndicate. I’m wolf. And wolves have principles. Even when killing.
Especially when killing.
My pulse pounds. My wolf snarls. That heat floods my system again—stronger now, undeniable, skittering under my skin like something alive. Long dormant nerve endings firing up.
I ignore it. Lock every unwanted response behind walls of discipline and rage.
Still, there’s this gnawing resistance in my gut that has nothing to do with conscience and everything to do with something I don’t understand and won’t acknowledge.
But it doesn’t matter. My decision is made. This man killed Chance. Signed the order that destroyed my life. And now he pays for it.
That’s justice. That’s what I came here to do. That’s what happens next.
The storm howls outside. Snow falls in sheets that erase the world.
Inside this shelter, two killers stand facing each other.
And one of us is about to die.
“We’re going to fight,” I tell him. “To the death.”
Chapter 7
Jericho
“We’re going to fight. To the death.”
I stare at her. Then I understand what she just said.
She’s serious.
The absurdity of it hits me first. This woman—maybe five-ten at best, exhausted, injured, running on fumes—wants to fight me. Hand to hand. To the death.
I’m six-six. I have eighty pounds on her, two centuries of combat training, and dragon bone density that makes me effectively bulletproof even without my fire.
And she’s wolf. Fast, yes. Dangerous in a pack. But in a one-on-one fight against a dragon?
It’s not even a contest.
I study her stance anyway. Not because I’m worried, but because I’m trying to understand the strategy. Weight slightly forward—aggressive posture. Shoulders tight with fatigue she’strying to hide. The shallow quality of her breathing that suggests bruised ribs.
She’s offering me a fight she cannot possibly win.
The question isn’t whether I’ll survive this. It’s what kind of death she’s trying to buy herself. She just doesn’t know it.
“A fight,” I repeat, letting the words settle. “You and me.”
“Yes.”
