The desert night was unforgiving.
A low growl rumbled from Ronan’s throat as he stalked through the marsh’s edge, his large dark gray paws kicking up mud and reeds. Blood—Nathan’s blood—had been strong at first, leading him and the other wolves with ease. But now… the trail had vanished.
Completely.
Ronan sniffed again, snorting in irritation. The coppery tang of blood was faint, dulled by wet earth, rot, and the sour smell of stagnant water. He padded forward, lowering his muzzle to a patch of churned-up mud. There—a few thick pawprints, deep grooves from claws. Then… nothing. Just the stink of swamp and muck.
He huffed and stood tall, eyes narrowed. Smart little bastard. He’d rolled himself and his friends in the mud. Masked their scent. Ronan had to admit—Nathan was cleverer than he
