What my father hated most was defeat and being brutally beaten. Azera was not just any wolf. It was a murdering wolf, a haunting wolf.
My wolf hated Azera. And I could sense his fears when we fought. I remembered my father telling me not to run from a fight.
“You are an Alpha, Scott!” He would yell each time I came back home bloodied. I don't need to know what his next question was going to be because I could second-guess it.
“I left him in a more critical situation.” I would reply with a satisfactory grin on my face, and I think he was okay with it. I looked at the table, which contained gauze and some iodine to clean my wounds.
Knock!
Knock!
“I'm coming!” I yelled, grabbing my stained clothes and throwing them across the bed. The knock came repeatedly. I cleaned my room, makin
