Page 2 of Gunnar

We don’t need to.

Someone is coming onto our land without permission.

And that’s a mistake they’ll only make once.

The engines grow louder until I can hear the gravel shifting under their tires. Headlights break through the trees first, sweeping across the lodge and the stacked wood at Orson’s feet.

Three black SUVs roll into the clearing and cut their engines.

Doors open.

Six men step into the clearing with weapons drawn.

I roll my shoulders and release.

The change tears through me, skin burning, bones crunching and spreading. My beast bursts out of me as my weight slams down into the earth. The world drops lower and wider, scent flooding in—oil, sweat, gunmetal, fear.

My brothers crash down onto all fours beside me.

In unison, we part our massive jaws, baring fangs as we unleash a roar. The sound shatters the clearing.

For a moment they freeze, transfixed with horror and disbelief.

One man fires too early. The shot tears through my shoulder fur and sparks off stone behind me.

I’m on him before he can chamber another round.

My weight drives him flat. The rifle cracks under my paw, splintering at the stock. I bite down on his forearm and feel bone give. He’s still screaming as I toss him aside.

To my left, Torin takes a bullet high in the flank and keeps moving. He barrels into two men at once, sending them into the side of the nearest SUV hard enough to spiderweb the windshield. One drops his weapon and runs.

He doesn’t get far.

Claws rake down his back. He hits the dirt face-first.

Another tries to retreat toward the tree line, fumbling for his sidearm. I close the distance in three strides and slam into him from behind. His head snaps forward against the hood of the vehicle with a wet crack. Blood spreads across the black paint in a thick line.

The clearing smells hot and metallic now.

The men who came prepared for battle are either on their knees or bleeding into the gravel.

Silence falls again, broken only by ragged breathing.

The doors of two SUVs hang open. The third remains closed, its engine idling.

I shift back. My beast goes back inside with an effort, grumbling and resisting me all the way. Blood is streaked across my chest and hands.

I stride toward the driver’s side window and pound it with my fist.

The glass fractures but holds.

“Get out,” I bellow.

The driver’s door opens.

The scent I picked up before intensifies.

But a man with cropped gray hair steps out.