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I either save myself or I don’t get saved.
But Orion’s here.
He moves like an action hero, judo throwing one alpha, kicking the one I stabbed, running like a shot.
I quit playing dead, using Orion’s distraction to palm-strike Mr. Stubble in the nose.
The crunch of bone stings but sounds so sweet.
I struggle out of his roaring reach. The guy snags me, coughing tears and blood. Orion kicks him away, giving me the chance to scramble free.
I stumble a few steps, hands and knees scraping the mulch of a landscaped island. We’re at the far edge of campus.
All I want to do is keep running.
But a roar cuts the night.
Every hair on my body lifts in salute, a ticklish, terrible chill rocking my spine.
It wasn’t wolves chasing.
It was Wyverns.
Atlas, Hunter, Finn, and Jett.
They fucking rip into the Brauns.
I’ve seen them train.
I’ve seen them spar in those teeny tiny shorts.
But I’ve never seen the real thing.
It’s not a fight.
It’s a combat clinic, and I suddenly understand why a lapel pin is enough to send a whole pack running scared.
Finn’s first lunge sparks a yelp so pained, it sounds like a field castration. Atlas turns Artur into a rag doll, Hunter knocks out alphas hard enough to scatter molars, and Jett stands on a man’s throat, grinding him into the ground.
His eyes are on me.
They’re full of a wild desperation that’s so unlike his usual ice, I swear I glimpse his younger self.
Feelings I don’t want crush my chest until I’m breathing through that cartoon straw.
Run.
“Lilah, stop!” Orion’s pleading voice makes me miss a step.
Can’t stop.
Wyvern Pack just saved my ass, and I don’t want to be anywhere near their heart-twisting pheromones when my adrenaline fades.
Because then my hormones will take the wheel, and those deluded bitches will steer me straight into their claws.
I’d rather wear the tracksuit.
I’d rather throw myself into the sea.
