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He hesitates. Look at the door.

“She’s sleeping,” I say gently. “Deep healing sleep. She won’t know if you’re here or not. But when she wakes up, she’s going to want clean clothes on you and food in your bellies. Trust me. I’m a mom. I know these things.”

Something almost like a smile touches his mouth. He takes my hand.

I carry Darlene down the hall to the family wing. The bath runs hot , I test it with my wrist the way my mother used to , and I find clothes in the supply closet that might fit. Damian’s are too big in the shoulders and too short in the sleeves. Darlene’s dress swallows her. But they’re clean. They’re warm.

“These are temporary,” I tell Damian as he buttons the shirt with fingers that fumble. “We’ll find better ones tomorrow.”

“These are fine.” His voice is quiet. Grateful in a way that makes my chest hurt.

Darlene wakes in the bath. She blinks up at me through the steam, confused, her dark hair plastered to her cheeks, and for a moment she doesn’t remember where she is. Then she does. Her lip trembles.

“Hey.” I crouch beside the tub. “Hey, little one. Your mom’s sleeping. She’s going to be just fine. And you know what? You get to have dinner in a real kitchen tonight. With real plates. What do you want to eat?”

She stares at me. “Pancakes?”

“Pancakes for dinner it is.”

Damian looks at me over the rim of the table. The pups eat well, but I still notice how thin they are. They are small compared to other pups their age.

I receive a mindlink that the shewolf is waking up from the doctor. I tell the children we can go visit their mom.

We enter the room just as Arlene’s eyes flutter open. Damian and Darlene rush forward, scrambling onto the bed before I can caution them to be gentle. Arlene’s arms wrap around them instantly, pulling them close against her bandaged shoulder. Her hands move over them in a frantic inventory, checking Damian’s scraped knees, smoothing Darlene’s damp hair, turning their faces toward the light. “You’re both all right?” she whispers, her voice hoarse. They nod into her neck. Only then does her breathing slow. She looks past them, scanning the room as if counting souls. Her gaze lands on me, questioning. “Where’s Darian?”

6

Darian's POV

Blood slides between my fingers as I tear the rogue’s throat out. Fifty down. Maybe more. I’ve lost count somewhere in the crimson haze of slaughter.

More’s coming. East. Five. Maybe six. My wolf’s voice is calm, clinical, the voice of a predator that has found its purpose.

I drop the body and melt into the shadows. The forest floor is slick with death, the copper tang so thick it coats the back of my throat. These hunters came for my family. Their blood is the price.

Protect. Kill. Protect.

The first of the new group steps into the clearing. Young. Too young to be hunting. His eyes widen at the carnage, and something in his posture shifts, hunter to prey in the span of a heartbeat. I don’t hesitate.

The others come faster than I expect. Better trained. They spread out, circling, trying to flank me. One lunges from my left while another attacks from behind. I pivot, claws raking across the first’s chest while my teeth find the second’s forearm. Bone cracks. Blood sprays. The forest becomes a symphony of screams and snapping bones.

Mate. Pups. Need to return.

The last rogue falls with a wet gurgle, his life leaking out between my fingers. I stand among the dead, chest heaving, blood dripping from my claws. The silence that follows is absolute. Then I hear them. Another group. Moving fast. Different formation than the rogues, disciplined, coordinated. Pack wolves.

I grab the scent blocker from my belt pouch and spray it across my body, then dive into the hollow beneath a fallen pine. The earth is cool against my skin, the pine needles prickling as I press myself flat. Seven wolves emerge from the trees. Silver Moon warriors, by their markings. They stop dead at the edge of the clearing.

“Moon Goddess,” one whispers.

The leader, tall, broad shouldered, with the bearing of someone used to command, circles the carnage. His eyes catalog each body with clinical precision.

“These aren’t ours,” he says. “Rogues. All of them.”

“Who did this?” Another warrior crouches beside a body. “This wasn’t a fight. This was...”

“An execution,” the leader finishes. “Someone took them apart one by one.”

I remain perfectly still. My wolf is silent, watching through my eyes.