With Ranalf defeated, there were no others to challenge Micah as leader, at least not in South Bloc. Meeting their eyes, he stared at each male pack member until every one of them looked down in submission. All of them but three.
Those three fuckers were no surprise at all. Eli’s sire, one of Ranalf’s cousins, and a rando lifelong ass-kisser. Micah knew the trio well. They were likely aware of Ranalf’s plan to gain the Morghanna’s favor from the beginning.
Micah taunted them with yips and howls as they shucked their clothes for the shift. He waited the way an alphashouldwait, rather than attacking at the most vulnerable moments during transition.
Did they take their time because they thought he had all day? The ass-kisser undid each button carefully, and the cousin bent to unlace his fucking shoes like they had all the time in the world. Micah went back to Ranalf, put his foot on the prone man’s back, and pushed until he heard it crack. Ranalf howled. His little playmates stopped taking their time, spurred to hurry the fuck up by Micah’s brutality.
Not some spring-born fucking pup, Micah wasn’t going to allow any more petty rebellions. Stepping back and allowing Ranalf to declare himself an alpha cost red-blood children their lives—and ended Sophie’s brother. These carrion-eaters wanted what their scoundrel of a leader wanted. Some of their own friends ended up in the special hell of the Morghanna’s bed because they followed Ranalf. And they abandoned them to her without a second thought.
Did they think Micah weak because he let Ranalf, a lesser alpha, lead a pack? He’d show them weak. Today, he’d color Avó’s yard with their blood.
He’d thought to toy with them a bit, spend his left-over rage on their worthless hides, but they took so long getting to their shift that he lost his damn mind waiting for them.
Finally, the two older ones, as sloppy as their former leader, glanced at each other before running at Micah in unison, broadcasting their intentions clear as day. Idiots. Acting like men who’d never fought for anything in their lives. They didn’t deserve clean and tidy endings.
Dropping to a knee when he felt the air of their movement along his body, Micah went the direct route beneath their guard. One on the left and one on the right of him, Micah grabbed his enemies by the balls, yanking down brutally. They screamed like the pussies they were through their shifted throats. Major arteries tore, spraying a torrent of red as the horror of Micah’s actions registered in their eyes. Micah had castrated Ranalf’s men. Humiliation first, punishment second.
Bursting to his feet at an angle, Micah dug his shoulder into the belly of the third shifter, ramming him to the ground. Ranalf’s cousin didn’t know what hit him, scrambling to escape rather than staying to fight. He knew he was outmatched. A coward in life, he deserved a coward’s death. Micah opened wide and snapped down on the other shifters skull, jerking his head viciously until flesh and bone shattered and tore away from the pathetic shit’s face.
Soon enough, the bloody bodies of Ranalf’s closest allies were lined up beside his crippled form, surrounding him with the horror of what he’d done. Micah looked back at the end of the yard where those who declared themselves Ranalf’s pack had stood, and chuffed. That end of the yard had quietly emptied as he focused on clearing the trash away.
One by one, he straddled Ranalf’s cronies. Made them see their end coming. Lowering himself to his haunches, Micah punched claws through rib cages, cracking them open like clamshells. After, he removed the beating hearts, halting any chance of regeneration or healing, and dropped the useless things to the ground.
The crowd watched in silence.
An alpha with followers—those who chose him, must pay the price for their choices. Still alive, Ranalf whined like a pup as Micah stepped over him and looked down on him in disgust. Everyone heard the shifter’s whimpers. He’d never been much of a male, though. No surprise. It took a long-ass time, but Ranalf had finally shown their kind his cowardice. Micah snarled satisfaction.
You lose.
Ranalf blinked at him, tried to beg for mercy with supplicating sounds. But it was too late.
Punching down, prying open Ranalf’s rib cage, Micah reached into the squishy insides and pulled free Ranalf’s beating heart with a roar.
He held it up for all to see.
Invoking the old traditions of his sire, Micah took a bite of the heart. He’d never wanted to spit something out more. Instead, he chewed and swallowed as he rocked back on his feet. They were all watching. They all saw, and every one of them understood.
Near the house, Jumper and Dante pushed Pek and Eli out of the crowd. Late to the party, the boys took in the lay of the land and knew what to do next.Pek smelled ill and terrified. Micah thought the boy looked ready to vomit. Micah was fine with that. It was understandable. But Pek would do this or die. Every one of Ranalf’s minions were gonna take a bite of his dead heart and make a new blood vow to his killer.
The crowed watched, holding their collective breaths. This mattered. Peck closed his eyes as if not to see who he had to take a bite out of, as if to distance himself from the horrifying trauma, the mess of red flesh, in his hand, marking him forever. One bite. Three slow chews, Pek’s face twisted with feeling, and a single, pained swallow.
Lifting his head, Micah filled his lungs with air and released a triumphant howl. He hadn’t wanted to be first alpha, but now the role was his. He sang his claim into the night, taking back what was his by right. The triumph song rose, challenge and declaration, building in volume, calling the pack. Every shifter within hearing distance joined the song, unable to resist. Their howls mixed with his, the riot rising into the sky and meeting the setting sun, loud enough to vibrate the glass windows in homes all up and down the street.
This was a time for shifters. Other blue-bloods melted away, sensing a frenzy in the air. Dante and Jumper fed the heart to Eli, and after him, they took it to pack members who had backed Ranalf over Micah. They served the grisly meal until it was gone.
Micah howled again, blood and power surging in his veins as the heart of his enemy disappeared into the mouths of his people. Avó and the older generation of red-bloods gathered themselves up while he and the other shifters sang, the wiser humans slipping off to safer areas.
The sun sat at the edge of the horizon. Light from lamps set up for the evening’s dancing and fun created gold circles in the shadows under the oak tree and along the fence. As if he called it, a breeze built, its moan joining his song. Damp with storms and laced with scents from a time and a place that didn’t exist on Earth, the wind chilled heated skin.
They were here. They were alive. The leader was dead, and a new had risen, but they were alive. They would celebrate their survival and connections. A mating run. There had been fighting and tragedy, and now they would hunt–a fuck to reward the resilience of the pack.
As the pack males shifted and gathered, they circled Micah. Their claws tore up the ground around him, and he, the eye of the storm. Dante and Jumper joined the circle, the familiar color of their coats matching his, standing out amongst the other shades of shifters. Howls disintegrated into growls and grating roars. None of them would dare make a move without him, but the angst was building.
Micah, bigger than all of them, breathed in the musk-scent of his people mixed with the blood of his kills. The drugging fumes went to his head and lit up his veins, soothing the bitterness of deeper, more human feelings. This was why the fighting circle healed grievances. The wild connection afterwards, the vital drug of instinct and survival, filled them up and shut out everything else. They were still here. They persevered, what the fuck else mattered?
The female pack members had shifted too, but they were beyond the males, circling outside the circle. Smaller and more delicate, they looked feminine even in their fur. Petite ears, shorter torsos, longer arms, their shift exposed erogenous zones, and none of them could hide the wet swelling of arousal between their legs. Right now, none of them wanted to.
A female in shift was hard to resist. In the primal part of his brain had always overridden good sense, a desire to mate taking center stage when he was a wolf. All he wanted to do was take and mount—before. That was before.
