Page 225 of The Werewolf’s Wrong Mate

“Thank you, Dr. Werewolf.”

Sava glanced back sharply. “Pain?”

“Yes.”

“Mark?”

“Feels like someone is ripping out a tree through my ribs.”

Her face went white.

“Still moving,” I said before she could stop. “Very brave. Deeply resentful.”

We made it through the service arch, then a Thorne wolf leapt from the hedge.

Sava shoved me into my father, turned, and slashed the silver blade across the wolf’s foreleg. He screamed, half shifted back to human, and crashed into the side of the stone passage. Dad tried to step in front of me. It was stupid and late and somehow broke my heart a little.

“Keep going!” Sava barked.

The service corridor beyond the courtyard smelled like bleach, rain, and panic. Human staff hid in doorways and under carts. One woman saw us and crossed herself. A young Holloway wolf stood frozen with a radio in his hand until Sava snarled, “Keys,” and he threw an entire ring at her.

“Thank you,” I called over my shoulder, because apparently manners were the last functioning part of my personality.

We hit the west laundry entrance. Outside waited the service road, three dark SUVs, and two wolves in Ronan’s colors standing guard. For one beautiful, impossible second, I thought we had made it.

Then one of the guards looked past us, toward the courtyard, and his face changed. His hand moved toward his weapon.

Sava lifted her blade. “Don’t.”

The guard looked at me and his eyes flickered gold.

My father said, “Oh, for Christ’s sake.”

A snarl rolled from deeper in the passage behind us.

Not Ian.

A Thorne wolf.

The guard made his choice turning to fight the oncoming Thorne wolves.

“Cars,” Sava snapped.

Ian

The world vanished.

Then there was only blood.

Rain.

Fur.

Teeth.

Kill.

The wolf had the world by the throat.