His name still hurts.
All this time, I’ve carried his memory, refused to let anyone close, refused to feel anything that might dilute the purity of mygrief. And now—now—my nerve endings fire up in response to the man who killed him.
I dig my claws into the frozen earth until they scrape rock.
Prey.
That’s what this is. Recognizing my quarry. Senses heightening as I prepare for the kill.
The wind shifts, carrying the scent again; smoke and something that burrows under my skin and stays.
I bare my teeth at the empty road.
“You won’t walk into Aurora that easily.” The words come out low. Savage. Reminding me of why I’m here.
I rise slowly, legs shaking, and start moving parallel to the route he vanished down. My feet leave bloody prints in the snow—human skin torn on rock and ice—but I don’t slow. The wolf takes over again, just enough that the pain becomes distant.
I slip through the trees toward the next pass, muscles coiling, mind focused on a single objective.
End this.
Before it ends you.
Behind me, the prints I leave fade fast, swallowed by fresh snow. My mind races as I try to make sense of the sensations that had overwhelmed me back there.
Recognition without understanding.
A gut-deep reaction to the man I plan to kill. Probably adrenaline at the knowledge of what I have to do.
That’s all it was.
An unnecessary feeling.
And I’ll bury it the same way I buried my mate.
Chapter 3
Jericho
The grind of tires over frozen asphalt vibrates through my boots. Snow-packed switchbacks. Altitude drops measured in ear pressure and the whine of downshifting gears. Endless hours rolling west with stops only for fuel and security sweeps.
I sit in the center vehicle. No cuffs. No chains. Voluntary detainment, they call it—though the two armed escorts flanking me and the third in the front passenger seat tell a different story.
I don’t blame them.
If I ran this convoy, I’d have doubled the guard and routed through three decoy checkpoints. Aurora’s taking a calculated risk bringing me in at all. That they’re doing it with minimal force means either they’re confident or they’re testing whether I’ll break protocol.
I won’t.
Breaking protocol is how people die.
I track details automatically: mileage since last checkpoint, engine pitch when the driver accelerates out of turns, which guard shifts weight when I exhale too loud. The one across from me—young, maybe mid-twenties—keeps checking his comm display like headquarters might disappear if he looks away.
His rifle safety clicks off every time the road narrows.
Standard procedure. I’d do the same.
The one to my left is older. Forty, maybe forty-five. Wedding ring indenting his glove. He hasn’t checked his weapon once since we left the last fuel stop. Either overconfident or experienced enough to know that readiness is a state of mind, not a nervous habit.
