The clearing is a mess of activity, Slade’s men already on clean up. Bodies slouch on their posts, heads lolling at impossible angles, blood pooled so deep in the ruts of the earth it’s more soup than soil. Some of the men are headless, their faces left on the ground like discarded masks. Others are gutted, the intestines curling from their bellies in bright, glistening ropes. Nothing moves but the flies.
It is beautiful.
We stand in a loose ring, the survivors. My hands still drip, leaving red fingerprints on the hem of my ruined shirt. Colton’s hoodie is saturated, the color indistinguishable from the gore that paints his jaw and throat. Bam is naked to the waist, torso striped with blood like war paint, his face split in a grin that’s all teeth and victory.
Dahlia’s dress is no longer white. It clings to her like wet tissue, the skirt stiff where blood dried in the fabric. She stands at Bam’s side, arms folded, chin high, watching the light with a face that says she’s already planning what comes next.
Eve leans against Colton, her eyes glassy, hair stuck to her cheeks with sweat and other fluids. She looks at the bodies, then at us, and lets the world in.
Isolde sits on the boulder, dress stretched tight over her belly. Her feet are bare, caked in mud, her hands resting on the curve of life inside her. Rhett hovers close, arms crossed, eyes burning holes in the horizon.
Amara is beside me, her hands sticky, nails rimmed in black. Her face is pale where it isn’t blood-stained. She’s so fucking beautiful it hurts.
We don’t speak. There is nothing left to say. The language of the night was blood, and it was more honest than any conversation we’ve ever had.
The light comes up, gold and ugly, slanting through the trees and throwing long shadows across the field. It hits the posts first, then creeps across the massacre, illuminating every detail in its stunning glory.
I take Amara’s chin in my hand and turn her to me.
She shivers, not from cold but from the end of it all. Her eyes are bright, unblinking. She’s trembling on the edge of something, and I want to watch her fall.
I kiss her.
Her mouth is open before I reach her. The taste is copper and salt and skin. She bites my lip, hard, splitting it. She grabs my wrists, pulls me close, presses her hips to mine through the wet cotton of her dress. I could fuck her here, in the ruins of our enemies, and she would let me. She would beg for it.
But I hold back, savoring the tension. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for.
She breaks the kiss, panting, mouth smeared with red.
“We won,” she whispers, as if afraid to say it loud.
I nod, running my thumb across her cheek, smearing the blood into her skin.
“No one will come for us now,” I say. “We are the wolves.”
Behind us, the others begin to move. Dahlia wipes her hands on the grass, then takes Bam’s hand in hers. Eve laughs, and Colton lifts her into his arms, spinning her in a slow, awkward circle. Isolde stands, swaying, and Rhett steadies her with a gentle hand.
We are a family.
The world ends and begins in this clearing.
The sun rises over the bodies of the men who thought they ruled us. I watch the shadows recede, leaving only the truth of what we are.
Amara leans into me, her head on my shoulder. I feel the heat of her, the steadiness of her heart.
“We should burn it,” she says, voice soft.
“We will,” I promise.
We stand together as the light grows. The boys, the girls, the ruined, the redeemed.
No one moves to leave.
We are gods now, and the world is ours to ruin.
Chapter 17: Amara
Sladewalkstowardsus,arms dangling with the weight of two red gasoline cans, one in each hand. He walks with the steadiness of a hangman on his way to the gallows, a bear of a man in a shirt torn open to the navel, blood up his forearms like he bathed in it. Two men flank each side, also heavy laden with gas cans.
