I was moving before I'd decided to move. Down the stairs. Through the packhouse. Out the back door, shoving it open, the cold air hitting me like a wall.
I gave Duke control before I'd even cleared the steps.
The shift tore through me—bones cracking, body reshaping—and then I was running, snow exploding under my paws, ice cracking beneath my weight, branches whipping past my face.
I didn't slow down. I ran faster.
The cold burned through my fur, stung my paws where the ice was sharpest, and cut at my lungs with every breath. Good. Let it. It still wasn't close to what I'd put her through every single day for years just because I could. Because she was easy to target. Because she never fought back.
I stumbled once on jagged ice, caught myself, and kept going.
"Faster," Duke urged.
I
