DRAKE
Blood, smoke and a bad odor—fear—were all in the air. It was suffocating and heavy clinging to the ruins like an omen.
The Eastwoods Pack was nothing more than a cemetery of destroyed houses and wolves, a smoldering wreckage. I stood motionless at its edge observing. The pack was burned to the ground in half. With broken walls, bodies ripped apart and limbs strewn about like trash what was left was scarcely better.
I didn't know the Alpha who had done this but I knew it could not be Del Morino. He had his way of doing things but not this way.
The assault had been ruthless. It had nothing to do with territory or dominance. No, this had been destruction done for its own sake.
Wasteful and for a moment it felt like something rogues could have done or maybe Pack Claimers.
I didn't
