Three down. Three to go.
The remaining wolves have seen enough. I watch the decision happen behind their eyes. The mottled brown female and the rangy male exchange a look that needs no words. They’ve watched me tear through half their strike team in less than two minutes, and whatever loyalty they have to their mission isn’t worth dying for.
They bolt.
Their paws thunder against the forest floor as they flee toward the underbrush, abandoning their scarred leader without a backward glance.
I let them go. The one in front of me is the real threat.
The scarred wolf stands his ground, even though he’s now alone. Even though he’s seen what I can do. Unlike the two who fled, this one carries the corruption deep. I can see it in the mottled patches beneath his fur and smell it in his scent. The newer recruits can still override their programming when survival instincts kick in. The old guards will fight until they win or they die.
This one has clearly chosen death over dishonor.
From the corner of my eye, I catch Skylar peaking out from behind a massive oak with her back flat against the bark. Her duffel bag lies forgotten in the leaves at her feet. Her face has gone pale, and she’s watching me like she’s seeing a stranger wearing the face of someone she used to know.
She is. The Bryan she knew died a long time ago.
The scarred wolf makes his move. He comes at me low and fast, going for my legs instead of my throat. Smart. Take out the mobility, and the kill becomes easy. It’s a technique the Cheslem trainers drilled into their fighters during the years when they were building their army.
Too bad I’ve fought wolves who were better at it than he was.
I leap over him and twist in midair to land on his back. My claws latch onto his spine for purchase, and my teeth sink into the back of his neck. I don’t go for the killing bite—not yet.Instead, I wrench sideways, and his spine gives with a sickening snap.
He collapses beneath me, paralyzed from the shoulders down.
I shift back to human form and crouch beside him, watching as his body forces itself through the change. It’s ugly, the way a dying wolf reverts. Bones pop and reform at wrong angles. Fur recedes in patches. By the time it’s finished, a man lies in the dirt where the scarred wolf used to be—middle-aged and gaunt, with those same parallel scars cutting through his face and a mouth full of blood.
I grab a fistful of his hair and yank his head up. “Talk, and I’ll make it quick. Who sent you?”
He laughs, wet and gurgling. Blood bubbles at the corner of his lips. “You’re already dead. You just don’t know it yet.”
“Who. Sent. You.”
“Rafe. Matthias’s son. Lance’s brother. You killed his brother. Now he’s going to take everything from you. Starting with her.”
His eyes slide toward Skylar, and my wolf snarls so loud the sound rips out of my human throat.
“He’s been watching you for months,” the dying man continues. “Waiting for you to come home. Waiting for you to have something worth losing.” Another wet laugh. “Rafe couldn’t believe his luck when the lottery matched you. Now he doesn’t just get to kill you; he gets to make you suffer first.”
I snap his neck before he can say another word.
Silence floods the forest.
The fight lasted maybe five minutes, and four wolves are down while two more are running for their lives. Blood soaks into the fallen leaves, black in the moonlight, and the copper smell of it fills my nostrils until I can taste it on my tongue.
The wounds on my flank burn, but they’re shallow. I’ll heal within the hour. Nothing else seems damaged beyond what rest will fix.
I stay crouched over the body for a moment, replaying what he told me. We thought the Cheslem remnants would scatter without leadership, fade into nothing the way dying movements always do.
I should have known better. Revenge is a fire that doesn’t burn out on its own.
I stand and turn toward Skylar. She hasn’t moved. She’s frozen against that oak like she’s become part of it.
I’m standing naked in front of her, covered in blood and dirt, but I don’t bother trying to cover myself. Modesty stopped mattering to me years ago, and we have bigger problems than her seeing me without clothes.
“Are you hurt?”
She shakes her head slowly, like the motion requires conscious effort. “What... What was that?”
