Wolves don’t survive hangings.
It’s the one death you can’t fight, can’t heal from, can’t crawl back from.
My wolf presses into my ribs like he’s trying to retreat even further to somewhere I can’t follow.
Buff mutters something about never seeing the next Power Rangers movie.
Froggy snaps so hard you’d think Buff confessed to destroying the moon. “Are you stupid? We’re literally about to fuckin’ die and you’re still on about the goddamnPower Rangers?”
I ignore them. While they bicker with each other, I need to fight for our lives. At the very least, I needed to fight for their lives.
“You’re right, we don’t have a pack, but we are family. And we have each other, and that means more to me than three hundred wolves who don’t give a shit about each other.” It’s a dig, and if Thorne and Talon are smart enough, they’ll pick up on that. I hold my breath, waiting for them to realize I’ve insulted their whole way of thinking. But stupidity wins out. No surprise there.
“I’m responsible for Frederick and Beauford. I appeal to you to let them go. Give me their punishment instead.” I pause before I say the next words because everyone knows exile is worse than death, but I selfishly can’t watch them die. “Mark them and ban them from the territories. If they’re seen, they’re hunted.” Exile didn’t kill us when we were kids.
This would.
Because this wouldn’t just strip land or protection—it would tear apart the only pack we ever managed to keep.
Buff. Froggy. Me.
The last scraps of family we weren’t supposed to survive with.
Pandemonium erupts. Wolves howl, those who aren’t shifted shout in a chorus of disbelief and horror. I can’t meet the gaze of my brothers.
The alphas put their heads together and murmur. It feels like hours of deliberation.
“What the fuck are you doing, man?” Froggy all but snarls at me.
“I’m saving your life.”
“You’re dooming us to a life of exile.”
I turn my head to face him. “We’re already living the lives of the exiled. It’s just us. It’s only been us for years.”
“Yeah, but we’ve had you,” Buff grunts.
I open my mouth to answer, but I don’t know what to say, so I snap it shut again.
Thorne’s voice booms across the clearing. “Fine. We agree. Beau and Freddie will be exiled. You will still be executed as leader of your little group of misfits.” He turns to face one of the enforcers who manhandled Freddie earlier, dismissing me like he hasn’t just sentenced me to death. “Grenade, get the branding irons.”
I snort. Grenade. My god, can they come up with any lamer names?
It takes less than thirty seconds for Grenade to return with the tools. I can’t help but wonder if they planned this, if they knew I’d beg for their lives.
The silver brand goes into the fire, and within moments, it glows white-hot.
Buff whines. “My ass still hurts from the bikes blowing up. My wrists hurt from these silver chains. Now they’re gonna brand me.”
“It’s going to be okay, Buff,” I mutter, though I’m not at all convinced it is. Doubt over whether I made the right decision slams into my body, but I keep my mouth shut. They might hate me after this, but I’d rather they hate me than die.
They drag Freddie first. He doesn’t fight when Grenade and Grant flank him, each grabbing a bicep. The bystanders crowd closer, making it impossible for me to do anything to save him. I don’t have an objection to throwing a punch for my family, but I’m no idiot. I know when I’m outnumbered.
The glow from the bonfire blazes across Freddie’s features, highlighting every curve and angle of a face that now looks to be set in stone. No expression except for absolute hatred.
Grant yanks Freddie’s T-shirt up and brings the iron closer to his skin. He does it slowly, drawing out the anticipation of the pain, increasing the torture. Freddie doesn’t flinch when they press the iron to his chest. The hiss of heat searing skin fills the eerie space. Everyone seems to be in a trance, drunk on mob mentality. The smell of burning flesh permeates the air, but it doesn’t mask the pheromones from the onlookers. Freddie grits his teeth and glares at Grant. The look in his eyes says “I’m glad it was your bike I fucked up”. Pride surges through me, but is quickly replaced by utter hatred for those surrounding me.
I’ve spent my life wishing to be part of something more, but in this moment, I’m grateful this isn’t how I turned out.
