TRISTAN
All I see is red.
Blood red.
Red trees. Red road. Red clouds. Red sky.
He’s going to pay. The fingers that touched her will be snapped off.
The tongue that tried to kiss her, yanked out.
The mouth that bit her, broken.
And then, oh then, I’ll rip his head off.
I barely remember shifting. Just an urgent shame, a need to hide this violence from her, and then I was running through the woods in a killing frenzy.
She was so brave, my Kitten.
My social instincts kept me from leaving the grounds, and they must have kept our woods cleared. All I came across were small prey animals.
Not the werewolf that needs to die.
We’ll have to register this with my father as a formal attack against a pack member. She might be the bottom rung, but how you treat your bottom rung is how you ar
