The interior of Viper’s Dodge Charger smelled of burnt fur and blood. The engine roared against my eardrums, but it was nothing compared to the sound of Cane’s laboured breathing.
I sat in the back, his massive head heavy in my lap. My clothes were soaked through, the fabric clinging to my skin. I pressed my palms against the gash in his chest where Silas’s claws had ripped through bone and muscle.
"Stay with me," I whispered, my voice cracking.
"Cane, look at me. Don't you dare close your eyes."
In the front seat, Viper was a figure of focused tension, his knuckles white on the steering wheel as he wove through the industrial backstreets of the Rust Belt. Beside him, Vane was shaking with grief and rage. He wasn't looking at the road; he was staring back at Cane, his golden eyes wide
