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Bellamy tussled in the dirt with him and was finally able to throw him off and catch his breath. That gave him the opportunity to see that Ashwood had his own problems with the second pack member as they rolled around the forest floor, neither able to get the upper hand.
But he didn’t have time to help before the first wolf was on him again, forcing him onto his back and biting down on his neck. He howled in pain, trying to thwart him, his claws scraping against his underbelly and shoulders and muzzle, any way he could acquire leverage and wound him enough to force retreat again.
Kipling moved closer, becoming a looming shadow, and Bellamy yowled in agony when he felt a rabid bite against his hock. He felt helpless in that moment, like he might not survive their vicious attack. He was not used to fighting in wolf form—in any form, really—and only had raw anger and willpower to see him through. He didn’t want to be left for dead like Ashwood had been, but he cared more that Ashwood would be able to escape in his stead—he wanted him to finally be free.
In his periphery, he noted Ashwood still tussling with the other wolf, and at least he now had the upper hand as they rolled nearer to the creek. But Kipling must’ve noticed that too because he deserted his efforts toward Bellamy, offering assistance to the second wolf instead.
By the time Bellamy was able to roll and struggle enough to thwart the first wolf and throw him off, Ashwood was in real trouble. The first wolf abandoned his attack on Bellamy and joined the others’ onslaught, and now there were three of them on Ashwood. Though his emotions felt muted, fear gripped Bellamy’s chest as Ashwood’s sharp howl vibrated through his bones. He was sure they would wound him enough to kill, and this time his injuries might never heal.
Bellamy didn’t hold back when it came to protecting his mate. He pounced, biting down on any hindquarters, limbs, and withers in his reach, attempting to make at least one of them retreat. But try as he might, he was no match for the three of them. Ashwood appeared limp, and Bellamy was growing desperate, fearing the worst.
He lifted his head instinctively and released a loud, keening wail from deep in his throat, his chest tight, achy, as if his heart might fracture into a hundred pieces.
Chapter 26
The air felt heavy around him, tense, when all at once more fur and claws and fangs joined the struggle. In fact, Bellamy counted four more wolves of varying colors and sizes. Panic crowded his chest, imagining that somehow Kipling had acquired more pack members to assist him as they scented their trail through the forest.
But these wolves appeared to be attacking Kipling and his pack members, not Ashwood or Bellamy. The scent of them was female—not that Bellamy understood how he could possibly know that—and it occurred to him they must be the pack Ashwood had told him about. Apparently, they had responded to his cries for help. Why else would they suddenly appear as if out of thin air?
The female wolves tussled with Kipling’s pack, which allowed Ashwood a reprieve. He was bloodied and hurting, trying to get air in as Kipling circled him, no doubt waiting to go in for the kill. But Bellamy could tell that Kipling had been weakened too. He didn’t look nearly as resilient as at the beginning of the fight, and Bellamy suspected it had everything to do with the Dragon’s Blood in his system. The plant had certainly hampered Bellamy’s own efforts to get well from the sickness.
Perhaps this was Bellamy’s opportunity to end this once and for all. Just as Kipling was about to leap on Ashwood, Bellamy sprang into action, chomping down on his hind leg and making him wail in pain. That allowed Ashwood to get to his feet and join him from the other side. Together they brought Kipling down by incapacitating each of his limbs as he grew weaker by the minute.
As Kipling went limp against the trunk of a towering tree, Bellamy still doubted his own power, thinking that perhaps it was still possible for Kipling to regain enough strength to wound Ashwood again. Except within seconds, Kipling shifted back to his failing human body, apparently too weak to sustain his wolf form.
Ashwood looked at Bellamy, and Bellamy understood the question in his eyes—Should we leave him in the woods to die like he left me?
Not if Bellamy had anything to do with it. He didn’t want to give Kipling the chance to recover, even if he did want him to suffer a while longer.
Bellamy twisted back toward the other battle, and saw it had already subsided. The female wolves were running the two remaining pack members off, both limping and seeming badly wounded. All that remained was Kipling, the man who’d turned his mother and Ashwood, then tormented them both. Kipling had killed his mother, brutally, and tried to do the same to Ashwood. In his weakened state, he didn’t appear menacing, but Bellamy knew better.
