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Present day…
The snow is cold under my paws, and the wind is sharp as I lope broader circles around the woodcutter’s cottage.
They are coming. I have not seen them or any evidence to this effect, and yet I know. And it fucking terrifies me in the way no battle with the Blighten ever did because it is not merely my life at risk but that of a woman who has claimed my heart.
My senses are on edge, and my wolf is going nuts. He has been confined all the time we were in the city, and while we tended Freya through her heat. This morning, he demanded to be set free. There was no point in denying him, so, while Freya slept with Aston, I rose and took an early scout, finding the snow was not as deep as we had hoped.
Still, I was not overly concerned until I ventured out again after Freya broke her fast and felt the rain in the air.
Our actions feel reckless now in bringing her here, although where else might we have taken her, I do not know. Then, her heat came upon her quickly, and we were all caught up in the frenzy of what followed.
She’s with child now. Ours. Claimed. Bred.
There should be no more that we need to fucking do.
And it would have worked had the snow locked us in for long enough to cement our claim, but that did not fucking happen. The sky, while cloudy, is too light to offer the promise of more snow. It is no longer raining, but the damage is done. They will be coming. Perhaps they are already on their way. Marshal could be gathering forces and possibly searching for us even now.
They will not fucking take her. Only the sickness roiling in my gut tells me we will have a fight on our hands if that prick lordling decides to throw his small weight around.
Maybe I read this all wrong. Maybe Marshal is in his lordly home with his small cock in hand and questioning where it went wrong. But as I emerge at the top of a steep slope that offers views of the narrow forest path that leads from Pershore to the clans, the wind gusts, bringing me a tendril of unwelcome scents: men, horses, dogs, and the metallic tang of armor.
They are not scents of the clan’s people.
They are the scents of soldiers from city-dwelling lands.
Then another scent hits me—wolf shifter.
My hackles rise, and my teeth curl back in a low growl as I catch the first glint of metal and feel the rumble of hooves beneath my paws.
Ten… no, twenty warriors armed with crossbows, half a dozen wolfhounds and two wolf shifters leading the way.
The men and hounds would likely have continued onto the village where our king, Alfred, would have sent them on their fucking way. But the shifters will pick up my scent and lead them straight to the fucking cottage.
My instincts war. I could return and warn Aston and my mate, yet what good will that fucking do when they are so many and can easily keep my pace. It will give me neither time nor advantage.
There are no more doubts nor suppositions; no confusion about Marshal’s intent.
They are coming, and they mean to take Freya back.
My only hope of saving her is if I take the shifters out.
Yet I am alone, and the odds are not in my favor against so many. I must get past mounted men with crossbows before I can reach the wolves.
I will make the fucking odds work. I am nothing if I fail my mate. A life without her is no fucking life at all. She carries our young—our seed grows in her belly.
The man buried under my fur feels the coldness of despair, the understanding of his imminent death, and, worse, the gnashing fear that this death might not be enough.
The wolf exists in a state of instinctive purpose. Protect our mate and give Aston time to get Freya somewhere safe.
Man and beast are aligned in the course of action laid out before us.
We snatched Freya from her life and her betrothed. One might empathize with Marshal’s quest as he seeks to save her from the barbarians who took her.
Aston and I know differently, for we have the measure of the man.
I cannot let that bastard get his hands on her.
As for those who seek to support him, well, they have made their fucking choices, and they will reap the consequences.
