People live for themselves, don’t they?
From the moment I first laid eyes on Xavier, I knew—he was my one chance to shed the stink of sheep and the chains of s*****y.
Two winters ago.
The wind that day was like shards of glass, biting into my skin as I herded the sheep to find the last scraps of winter grass. Most of it was dead, buried under snow, but I didn’t have the luxury of returning empty-handed. That’s when they came.
Panthera tigris.
Not ordinary beasts, but sleek, razor-toothed monsters bred by Rogue Den’s royal family. Their fur shimmered under the weak sun, their low growls sending shivers down my spine. Even the most battle-hardened werewolves gave these predators a wide berth.
The sheep scattered, bleating in terror. And before I knew it, one of the Panthera
