Page 19 of Dark Dragon’s Wolf

“You don’t know what you’ve done,” he whispered.

He could feel the crazy rising up inside him. The part of him that would do anything to make the pain go away.

The monster inside him that could only be assuaged by blood—blood and death. He could hear the ghosts calling out for him, calling for him to save them.

He couldn’t. It was too late. They were gone.

Dimly, through the roar of voices, he heard Mayah. “Tristan,” she said. “Let me help you!”

“You can’t help me,” he snarled. “I’ll just hurt you. Why can’t you figure that out?”

“You won’t hurt me.”

He grabbed her shoulders, feeling his fingers bruising the soft flesh. “Maybe I want to. Maybe I want to hurt everyone.” He yanked her up against him. “You want me to be this kind, gentle healer. I’m not. I’m not a good person. Don’t you get that?”

She was so beautiful. So soft. And he wanted soft, but it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. He needed hard, wild, crazy.

He backed her roughly up against the stone wall and claimed her mouth, his kiss hard and punishing. Her lip split, and he could taste the blood.

His wolf snarled, deep in his chest. He wanted to rip her clothes off and take her right here, thrust himself in her hard until all the pain was gone, all the hurt, all the horror. He wanted to lose himself in her, not even caring what she needed because he needed her so much.

He needed to empty himself in her and have her hold him until he found something to live for.

His wolf snarled again. Devour her. He felt his fangs manifesting, smelled the blood rushing through the veins in her neck. Bite. Blood.

Tristan let go of Mayah and stumbled backwards, his wolf shivering his bones until they started to snap. Mayah stared back at him, her eyes wide in the darkness, glowing green.

And he got the fuck out of there.

Mayah stood on top of the tower, shaking, staring at the doorway where Tristan had disappeared. She could hear his footsteps on the stone stairs, running down.

She felt the exact moment he turned wolf. She heard the churning thoughts in his mind even before she heard his claws on the stone.

Still running.

Dammit! She’d screwed it up. She’d tried to fix him, and she’d only made things worse.

She could still feel him, though. Like that piece of him she held in her heart was a tracker, that knew exactly where he was.

She knew when he hit the bottom of the stairs, when he crossed the courtyard and left the castle, when he left the fields behind and entered the forest.

Running, running. Away from everything that had been done to him; away from everything he’d lost. The burden of pain he carried was more than any creature could carry alone.

No wonder he’d locked it away. Tried to be something he wasn’t.

Tried to be normal.

They would never be normal, either one of them. They knew pain and torture and unending betrayal.

But there was one thing Tristan didn’t know.

She loved him. He was her wolf, and she loved him, and love was magic. Love was a miracle. Love could do anything. Love could save anyone.

All their lives, she and her brother had saved each other over and over, by loving each other. Emon and Trish had saved each other. Tris’s friends, the Bad Blood crew—Kira’s crew—had saved each other with the power of their love for their crew, and the power of their love for their mates.

Tristan couldn’t be saved with healers, with psychology, or by locking his pain away and pretending it never happened.

He could only be saved by love.