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His step faltered. He’d expected her to fold. He reached for her arm.

She caught his wrist. Twisted. Drove her elbow into his jaw with a crack that carried across the yard. He staggered. She pressed forward, drove a knee into his ribs, felt them give.

He swung at her, wild. She slipped it, caught his arm on the backswing, wrenched it behind him, put him face-first into the training yard dirt.

“I am not yours.” Her knee was on his back, his face in the mud. “I was never yours.”

She was vaguely aware of paws on stone behind her. She felt Chris before she saw him, the bond blazing, his wolf barreling into the yard. He shifted at the edge of the training ground, landing on two feet, already moving toward her.

His eyes found Garrett on the ground. He pulled up short. His hands were clenched, his breathing ragged from the run. She watched the instinct cross his face, the need to step between her and the threat.

She held his gaze. Shook her head.

He came to stand beside her instead. Shoulder to shoulder, his weight settled, ready but not leading.

“Chris.”

“I’m here.”

“I know.”

Kahn arrived twenty minutes later with blood on his fur. He shifted in the yard, took in the scene. Five rogues down. Garrett on his knees with his hands bound, Chris standing guard.

Kahn looked at Garrett. Then at Sloane.

“Your call. He’s your blood.”

“He’s your territory.” She met Kahn’s eyes. “Do what you do.”

Kahn turned back to Garrett. “You were banished from this territory twenty years ago. You returned. You threatened a member of this pack. You led an armed force against our borders.” He looked at Gideon, who had arrived with two patrol wolves at his back. “Take him to the cells.”

Garrett’s hazel eyes stayed on Sloane as they dragged him across the yard, searching for the flinch, the girl who would fold.

She watched him go.

The compound settled into the quiet that followed violence. Caitlynn’s fire went out. Olivia shifted back, limping from a bite on her hip. Wolves filtered in from the eastern line, moving with the exhausted purpose of people who had held what needed holding.

Damian found them an hour later. Cut above his eye, dirt ground into the knees of his trousers. He walked up to Chris and Sloane where they stood at the edge of the training yard.

“Eastern line held,” Damian said. “Viktor’s running the prisoner count. Eleven captured, seven fled.”

“You held the line,” Chris said.

Damian looked at him, then away. “Yeah. I held it.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. Looked at Sloane.

“There’s a girl. One of the captives. She’s young. She wasn’t a fighter, at least not a strong one.” He paused. “Her name is Lyssa. She says she’s Garrett’s daughter.”

Sloane went still. Chris put his hand on her back. She didn’t pull away.

“She’s lying.”

Damian frowned. “I thought so too, at first. But see… I don’t think she is, Sloane. I think she is your sister.”

“She’s nothing of me.”

He sighed. “She wants to see you.”