The alpha was different.
He'd surfaced twice more during the night, fighting the restraints, fighting the drugs, fighting the bond that connected us.
Each time, the sedatives had pulled him back under.
But he was burning through them faster now. Neal's supply was almost gone.
"We need to get them to the Healing Center," he said, his voice hoarse with exhaustion. "Now."
"The Center isn't equipped for five ferals," I pointed out.
"It'll have to be." Neal's jaw was tight. "We don't have another option."
He was right. We'd planned for this — planned as well as we could, anyway. But the reality of five feral wolves, one of them barely contained, was different from the theory.
We started moving again. Faster now, the familiar terrain of campus giving us strength we shouldn't have had. James ranged ahead, scouting the path, making sure we wouldn't encounter anyone who might ask difficult questions.
Cal stayed close to the smaller wolves. His packmates. His brothers. The ones he'd left behind and finally found again.
And I walked beside the alpha's sled, my hand occasionally brushing his fur, feeling the bond pulse between us.
He was my mate now, whether either of us had wanted it — a connection forged in violence and chaos, demanding to be acknowledged.
I didn't know what that meant yet. Didn't know how to integrate this angry, broken wolf into a life that was already stretched to breaking.
Chapter ten
We were fifty yards from the Healing Center when everything went wrong.
The sun had fully risen by then, pale light washing across the campus grounds. Early morning — the time when students stumbled to breakfast, when staff made their first rounds, when the world was supposed to be quiet and predictable.
We were none of those things.
James was helping me guide the alpha's sled across the last stretch of frozen ground. Neal walked ahead, medical bag clutched to his chest, his face gray with exhaustion. And behind us—
Wolves.
They moved like shadows, silent and gaunt, following Cal with the blind devotion of animals who had forgotten how to think forthemselves. Their eyes were empty. Their ribs showed through matted fur. They looked like something out of a nightmare.
Which is probably why the groundskeeper screamed.
I didn't see him at first. Just heard the sound — a sharp, terrified shout that cut through the morning stillness. Then I turned and saw him standing near the maintenance shed, rake fallen from his hands, face white with shock.
He was staring at the wolves.
"No," I breathed. "No, no, no—"
He ran.
Not away from us — toward the main building. Toward the emergency panel I'd seen a hundred times and never thought about. The one with the big red button behind glass.
"Stop him!" James shouted.
Too late.
The groundskeeper's fist smashed through the glass. His palm hit the button.
And the world erupted in sound.
