“That isn’t the plan,” Beaufort hisses into my ear.
And he’s right. It isn’t. And I am about to do the right thing. Honestly, I am. Lure these fuckers toward the towers before we set our trap for the Empress.
But then I see my brother – my little brother, that little fucker – swing back his hand and fire at Little Kitten.
She’s not looking his way. She doesn’t see it.
Though it does no real harm, it still hits her on the leg, sending her tumbling backward and cursing into the air.
Something inside me turns feral. Maybe it always was feral, if I’m honest. But in an instant, my wolf snaps into control. And even though I know this is the wrong thing to do, and even though I struggle against it as best I can, fight it with all my might, my instincts are too damn strong.
She’s my mate.
He hurt my mate.
And now he dies.
I’m in my wolf form in a heartbeat, charging through the smoking remains of the barricade straight at my brother, who sees me coming and transforms himself. He speeds toward me, and we meet in a clash of teeth and jaws and claws.
Chaos ensues around us. Shadow weaver fighting shadow weaver. Shadow magic crashing in the air, splintering, sparking, firing. I’m barely aware of any of it, just the snarl of my brother’s hot breath, the sting of his jaws, the slice of his claws, the taste of his damp fur and metallic blood, the thump of his heart in my ear, the scent of family and home and betrayal.
We tussle, rolling in the boggy ground, sinking into the mud, cold water penetrating through my thick fur to my skin, to my very bones.
He pins me down. I flip him off. I have him in submission, but not for long. He wriggles free, snapping at me, barreling into me, knocking me off my feet again. We roll some more, over and over again, the battle becoming something distant and far away.
It’s only me and him. And it’s a fight to the death.
He won’t spare me.
Can I spare him?
He tried to kill my mate. He betrayed us. Tried to kill me. He’s trying to kill me again.
He’s still my brother.
Deep down, I wonder if it’s my fault he hates me so much that he wants me dead. Then again, maybe he’s just a psychopath hell-bent on power and control, determined to have both.
I growl and force him to the ground, the scruff of his neck in my jaw. He whines, tries to break free, scrabbling this way and that, but only sinking deeper into the bog.
I could do it now. I could break his neck. I could rip it out, slice open his belly, let him bleed out into the muggy ground.
I can’t do either.
Because I still remember, distantly, those moments when it was just the two of us – scurrying through the prairie land, playing together in the long grass, splashing in the river, hunting under the house, snuggled up in the same bed, hiding from our parents.
I’m so lost in these moments, caught by the past and indecision, that my grip slackens. He jolts me off. I fly backward, landing with a splash in the bog.
He’s on me in a moment.
And it’s true what they say. My life flashes before my eyes, glimpses of it. The moment we were sabotaged. The moment that shifter tried to kill me. The moment I killed him. The first moment I met Little Kitten.
Little Kitten.Little Kitten.
Images of her flash before my eyes as his snarling mouth veers down toward my throat.
Something snaps inside me again. Instinct. I snap up and sink my teeth into his throat ripping it clean away.
The body of his wolf tumbles to the ground, as I spit out blood and gristle and flesh and peer down at his unmoving form. His eyes are frozen in an expression of shock, his tongue lolling from the side of his mouth, a great gash where his throat was.
