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My knife won’t do any good against magic either.
In this moment, that hardly matters though. The thought of Ridge out there, alone and in trouble, is enough to send me darting toward the back door, spurred on by the primal need to keep him safe.
I’m halfway down the hall when the door swings open. But instead of Ridge, another familiar face appears in my vision as a man strides inside, blasting apart the safety and comfort of this cabin.
Uncle Clint.
“Found you, you little shit,” he snarls, then stalks toward me.
Everything inside me screams at me to react, but terror has turned me to ice. For a second, it’s as if the past two weeks never happened. It’s as if I never stepped foot outside of Uncle Clint’s truck that night, never dared to step out of line.
For a second, I’m nothing but the scared little girl he beat and abused for years just because he could.
It’s my fear for Ridge that brings me back from that place. Fear for the man I’ve come to care for that reminds me these two weeks did happen—that I’m not the same girl I was.
As Clint nears me, I lash out with the knife, slicing wildly toward him. My movement is jerky, but I don’t think he was expecting it, because I manage to catch the edge of his arm with the tip of the blade. The sharp knife tears through his flannel shirt before biting into skin, and he hisses in pain, jerking back.
An ugly look crosses his face, and he charges forward, blood dripping from the gash in his arm.
Before I can slash again, he grabs me by the arm, his fingers hard and bruising, and bats the knife away from my hand with his gun. Sharp pain cracks across my knuckles as the gun makes contact, and my only means of protecting myself skitters away over the kitchen floor, little droplets of blood flying from the blade.
“You little cunt. Thought you got all tough out here in the fuckin’ woods, huh? Did your boyfriend teach you that?” he snarls.
However deep I managed to cut his arm, it clearly wasn’t deep enough. His grip is strong as he hauls me into a headlock, pinning my back to his chest. Then he drags me toward the door, the barrel of the gun pressed to my temple.
I’ve lost the ability to move my feet, and I collapse against his grip on my arm, my legs dragging uselessly on the floor. This is the culmination of every nightmare I’ve had since running away from him, the thing I told myself would never happen. Could never happen.
Maybe I should’ve known better.
I hold out hope that Ridge is outside, that Clint didn’t shoot him dead, and when we emerge, he’ll be waiting to tear my uncle’s throat out.
But that hope is ripped to shreds when Clint drags me out over the cool grass and into the night—past Ridge’s limp, still body.
27
Trystan
I never thought I’d enjoy hunting with shifters outside my pack, but these dumb fucks actually make it enjoyable.
I’ve known Archer for most of my life, though not in any kind of familiar context. Just as that dude who’s dad is the dying alpha of the East Pack and who probably isn’t strong enough to take the mantle when the old man croaks.
But he surprises me when we’re on the hunt. I had little doubt before that Dare was just as strong and skilled as me, but Archer is too. We work together like a well-oiled machine, evenly matched and able to anticipate each other’s moves.
I fly over the undergrowth into position, forming a third point on our triangle around the herd of grazing deer. There are five of them to choose from, all with their noses in the grass in a small field, completely oblivious to the threat surrounding them. Whoever can’t run fast enough is going to be dinner.
The wind carries me Dare’s scent, and I can see Archer just beyond the shadow of fading sunlight. We’re in place. Excitement courses through my veins, and I let out a barely audible yip. As one, the three of us leap forward.
The deer scatter on our approach. As we crash into the clearing, they panic and try to find an opening to run, to escape us before we can take them down. We rush around them, growling and snapping, and the stronger deer make their escape.
That’s okay, because we aren’t there for the strongest, fastest deer. Once they’re in flight, the one we want is well behind and not capable of fleeing. The fastest deer get to live another day; the slowest gets to feed a bunch of hungry shifters.
Dare reaches our prey first and takes her down with a well-placed leap and a snap of his jaws. Within moments, her blood is cooling on the grass and her companions are long gone.
The circle of fucking life.
If we were out here for funsies, we’d just rip into her as is and have ourselves a raw feast. I love hunts like that, getting my snout bloody beneath the open sky, the meat still warm as we tear into it. But we’re feeding Sable too, which means taking the deer back to the cabin and tossing it on the grill. I’m not picky. I like it both ways.
We shift back and hover over the beast, eyeing our handiwork.
