And the bastards who'd murdered her were about to find out exactly what that meant.
The bow felt like destiny in my hands, silver-tipped arrows whispering promises of vengeance yet to come. Let them come for us again. Let Calder and his rogues and whatever puppet master pulled their strings think they could break us through violence and terror.
They'd learn differently soon enough.
The fire burned through the night, and by dawn, nothing remained but ash and memory and the unbreakable promise of a son who'd loved his mother enough to become a killer in her name.
Some prices were worth paying. Some transformations were necessary.
And some wars were worth fighting, even when you knew they might destroy everything good you'd ever touched.
31
RESTLESS WOLVES
EVAN
Istood at the treeline watching Nate fire arrow after arrow at a straw target, each thud landing closer to center, sweat carving tracks through the dirt on his face despite the October chill.
Seven days since we'd burned his mother under stars that seemed dimmer now, and Nate hadn't stopped moving. Training from dawn until his hands bled, pushing through exhaustion that would have dropped most humans, driven by fury that carved him sharper with each passing hour.
Thud.
Another arrow found its mark, silver tip burying itself in straw that had already been punctured so many times it looked like abstract art painted in holes. Nate's form was getting better, shoulders drawing back properly, stance widening to distribute weight. But the mechanical repetition made my chest tight with worry.
This wasn't training anymore. This was punishment.
“Draw from the shoulder, not the wrist,” Gideon barked from his position behind Nate, tapping the ground with his walking stick for emphasis. “Your elbow's drifting. Again.”
Nate obeyed without comment, nocking another arrow with movements that had gained fluidity over the past week. His jaw stayed clenched in concentration, determination written in every taut line of his body. The boy who used to fill comfortable silences with easy laughter now carried quiet like armor.
It scared me more than any rogue ever could.
Around us, other pack members went through their own training routines. Jonah and Alaric sparred near the eastern stones, human forms moving with inhuman speed as they tested each other's reflexes. Steel rang against steel, the sound echoing off trees that had witnessed generations of wolves learning to fight.
“Looking good, city boy,” Jonah called between exchanges, trying to inject some lightness into air that felt thick as molasses. “Keep that up and you might actually hit what you're aiming at.”
Nate barely acknowledged the comment, just drew another arrow and let it fly.Thud.Dead center this time, the silver point splitting wood that had already been compromised by dozens of previous shots.
My wolf paced restlessly under my skin, wanting to intervene, to pull Nate away from this relentless self-destruction disguised as preparation. But every time I moved toward him, I caught sight of that vow burning in his eyes.I'll never be useless again.
And how could I argue with that? How could I ask him to stop when his mother's blood was still fresh on ground that should have been safe?
“He's getting better,” Sienna murmured from beside me, her tone carefully neutral. “Gideon says he's got natural talent. Good eye, steady hands.”
“He's destroying himself,” I replied, not bothering to hide the concern in my voice. “He hasn't slept more than three hours at a stretch since the funeral. Barely eats unless someone forces food into his hands.”
“Grief does that,” she said with the wisdom of someone who'd lost people too. “Makes you think if you just move fast enough, hurt enough, work hard enough, you can outrun the pain.”
“Can you?”
Her smile was sad around the edges. “No. But sometimes the trying keeps you alive long enough to remember why living matters.”
Across the clearing, I spotted Dad standing with Michael near the northern edge, the two men cast in late afternoon shadow. Their voices were low, but the weight in the air was unmistakable—grief, anger, and the stubborn hope that somehow we could still protect what was left.
As I approached, Michael glanced up. He looked older than he had a week ago, but the hollow devastation in his eyes had softened into something more determined.
“If I’m to keep living in this world,” Michael said quietly, voice rough, “then I want to live with my eyes open. Nate deserves that much from me. I can’t be the kind of father who looks away.”
