He darted behind a building, pressing his back to the cool stone to catch his breath. Delaynie slid in smoothly beside him, tongue lolling out between her wicked teeth.
“The trees,” Quentin panted. “We have to get to the trees. We’ll lose them in the jungle.”
Delaynie nodded, then pricked her ears toward the road. A soft whine slipped past her teeth.
They’re coming, she seemed to say.
“I know.” Quentin swallowed, dragging in one last deep breath.
He darted back into the rising sun, sprinting for the tree line.
They were spotted as soon as they emerged. More enraged cries rang out, the booted steps quickening. Quentin’s chest burned, his legs on fire as he sprinted up, up, up.
The tree line loomed ahead—close, but still so far. An arrow whizzed past his head, burying into a cart discarded in the road. Quentin cursed.
They weren’t going to make it.
“Delaynie,” he panted. The wolf trotted beside him, ears pinned, lips pulled in a snarl as she glanced over her shoulder. “Go. Run. You can make it if you run.”
She leveled him with that crushing blue stare. And again, he could almost hear her words.
Absolutely not, you idiot.
With a growl, she pushed in front of him, dropping to the ground. Using her massive head, she urged him toward her body—toward her back.
She wanted him to climb on.
Quentin froze, still trying to catch his breath, even with the army quickly approaching. “Are you sure? You’re big, sure, but?—”
Another arrow blurred past his face, so close he felt the wind move from the fletching. Delaynie growled again, louder this time, the sound nearly a bark.
“All right. You win.” He flung himself over her back, settling between her shoulders. She rose to her feet, muscles shifting. Her back was sloped much more downward than a horse, and Quentin had to lean forward to keep his balance. His fingers buried in the fur at the nape of her neck, taking care to avoid the shallow wound on her shoulder.
Even like this, even in this form, she smelled like coconut and vanilla. And the fur? Just as soft as he’d imagined it.
He didn’t have time to marvel further before she was leaping forward, shooting into a vision-blurring gallop.
She was fast—impossibly fast. The distance between them and the tree line, once daunting, was swallowed up in a matter of seconds. The clang of the approaching soldiers fell away, the road ending in a decrepit pile of rubble. Delaynie leaped, clearing it easily, landing softly in the underbrush of the jungle.
She didn’t slow. They pressed deeper into the canopy, threading through narrow game trails and soft splotches ofsunlight. The trees were thick, the forest wild. Birds chirped and monkeys howled as they swung from the branches.
It wasn’t until they came upon a babbling stream deep in the mountains that they finally came to a halt. Delaynie panted heavily and Quentin’s stomach dropped when he felt the way her muscles quivered beneath him.
“That’s enough, little wolf. We’re safe.”
She dropped to her belly and he slid off her, sinking to his knees in the mossy earth. He stroked a path down the side of her face—massive and stained with blood, but still delicate, still feminine, still somehow looking like her. She watched him with tired, terrified eyes, and it broke a piece of him in two.
He was partly to blame. They didn’t have to slaughter all those men to escape. But he had, and he’d made her part of that.
Guilt wound through him, hot and thick.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, voice breaking. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Of course, she didn’t answer. She simply darted her gaze at the clear stream, and with a huff of exertion, pushed to her feet and made her way to the water.
They cleaned themselves in silence, Quentin doing what he could to rinse the blood from his shirt. He helped Delaynie wash the blood from her fur, inspecting the wound on her shoulder.
“It’s not deep,” he said. “Probably still stings, but it’s already clotted. Might not even scar when you shift back.”
