But the wolf doesn’t care about timing. It never does.
All I see is her face, pale and tear-streaked, and the only thought left in my foggy head is one I couldn’t fight even if I wanted to.
Mine.
4
IRIS
The floor is cold.
That’s the first thing I notice. The hardwood against my cheek, cold and smooth, and I don’t remember how I got here. Everything is… swimmy. As if I’m looking through water. My head is pounding and my arms feel like they’re made of sand or wet cement. The room is sideways.
Oh. I’m on the floor. That’s why.
I blink a few times and things come back slowly as if trying to remember a dream after you’ve already gotten out of bed. The armchair leg. The coffee table. A pair of boots that definitely aren’t Dad’s.
The men. Right. The men in our house. Dad on the couch and then Dad was… laughing? Was he laughing? That doesn’t seem right, but I think he was. And then there was a sound, a hissing sound, and then…
Dad left.
My chest gets tight, and I press my face into the floor and squeeze my eyes shut. He left. He told me to come with him, and I tried, I really tried, but my legs were… they just wouldn’t… and he left. The door closed, and he turned on the truck and drove away. I wasn’t imagining that part.
Everything else from the last however long it’s been is smeared together like wet paint.
He definitely drove away. But he didn’tleaveme. That’s not what happened. He had to go. These people broke into our house and threatened him. If he stayed, what would they have done? Hurt him? Take him? He can’t let that happen. His work is too important. Everything he’s spent his whole life building. He can’t let a bunch of angry shifters destroy all of it.
Besides, this is Dad. He always has a plan. I didn’t know about the gas, and that turned out to be brilliant, right? He’s got something else figured out. He’s probably already making calls. Sending people. He wouldn’t just leave me here with no way out.
He’s my dad. He wouldn’t do that.
I open my eyes again. The boots haven’t moved. Past them, I can see shapes on the ground, and some of them are starting to stir. The huge one, the mountain one, is pulling himself up using the fireplace mantle. Another one is on his hands and knees near the door, and I watch him for a while before I remember I should probably be doing something other than lying here.
The gas. Dad said it only affects shifters. Which means they’re still messed up from it. Which means…
The thought floats up through the fog slowly, but when it lands, it’s clear.Move.Get up. Get out. Now, while they can’t stop me. If Dad’s sending help, the best thing I can do is not be here. I know these woods. I’ve walked them a hundred times. If I can just get to the back door?—
I press my hands flat on the floor and push.
My arms shake so hard I go right back down. The infusion. It’s still pulling at me, still dragging through my system, making everything heavy, wrong and disconnected. My body doesn’t feel like mine. It hasn’t felt like mine since the needle went in, and it’s worse now because I’m tired and scared. I think I might have been unconscious for a while, and something about that makesthe whole thing hit harder. The way my blood forgot how to do its job.
But I have to. I don’t have a choice. I get one knee under me, then the other. I grab the armchair and pull myself up, and the room spins around me in a wide, lazy circle. I hold on until it slows down. Sort of. Close enough.
Nobody stops me. They’re all still out of it, or close enough. The really big one by the fireplace watches me through half-closed eyes, but he doesn’t move. Maybe he can’t.
One step. Another one. The hallway is right there. The back door is at the end. I know this. Patio. Garden wall. Slope into the valley. I can do this.
The hallway is longer than I remember. Or maybe I’m just slower. My feet keep doing this thing where they don’t go exactly where I tell them to, and I bump my shoulder against the wall and have to stop for a second because the impact sends a wave of dizziness through me that turns my stomach. The edges of my vision are doing something weird—going dark, then bright, then dark again, pulsing with my heartbeat.
I’m halfway down the hall when I hear him.
I don’t understand how. Dad said the gas should’ve kept them down for an hour, but there are footsteps behind me, uneven but fast, and before I can get to the door, a hand closes around my arm.
Not hard. Not hurting. But strong, even now, after being gassed. He turns me around, and I’m looking up at him, and I have to blink a few times because my eyes aren’t focusing right. He splits into two for a second, then merges back together.
He’s the one. The leader who spoke to Dad. He’s really tall, or maybe that’s just because my knees are about to give out, with dark hair and green eyes. He’s young. That registers through the haze. He can’t be much older than me.
“Don’t,” he says. One word, low and rough.
