Page 227 of The Werewolf’s Wrong Mate

Not sound. Body. Soul. Mark. The shock of her understanding hit me so hard I staggered on four limbs that were not fully mine yet.

He’s not coming.

She knew. For one unbearable second, her pain filled the place I had just ripped open.

Betrayal.

Fear.

Love not yet spoken but already reaching.

Then the wolf took it and made it rage.

Silas moved toward Ronan.

The old wolf had shifted halfway, tall and monstrous, silver hair gone dark with rain, fingers lengthened into claws. He struck with Alpha speed, going for Ronan’s throat while Ronan turned from ordering wolves toward the west route.

Challenge.

Pack.

Brother.

Enemy.

Kill.

Ronan met him, but he was a breath late.

I was not.

I hit Silas from the side and we crashed through the fountain. Stone cracked. Water burst upward. Silas’s claws raked my shoulder to bone, but pain had no meaning now. He twisted under me, strong, old, Alpha blood hot in him.

“You prove me right,” he snarled.

Words.

No use for words.

He drove a knee into my ribs, shifted further, jaws snapping. I let him bite my forearm. Let him take the meat. Let him think that meant I had offered weakness.

Then I closed my other hand around his lower jaw and pulled.

He screamed.

Good.

The wolf liked that.

The man did too.

Silas thrashed, claws tearing my chest, my side, my throat. I drove him down again, through broken stone and fountain water gone pink. His wolves tried to reach him. Ronan’s wolves intercepted. Cormac took one in the side and kept fighting. Someone shouted my name.

Ronan.

Ignore.

Silas’s eyes found mine. For the first time, he looked afraid.