The forest did not fear Nixon.
It should have.
Every creature with instincts usually did.
The wind shifted strangely when he walked through the trees, like nature itself wanted to avoid him. Wolves lowered their heads when he passed. Pack members moved aside quickly. Even rogues whispered stories about Alpha Rayven’s Beta "The Madman".
Nixon liked that title.
It kept people away.
It kept them from noticing that beneath the violence, beneath the snarling wolf and bloodstained fists, there was something deeply wrong inside him.
Something hollow.
Something starving.
Crunch.
A branch snapped beneath his boot.
Nixon paused in the middle of the forest trail, sharp amber eyes narrowing.
He could smell rain approaching.
Pine.
Wet earth.
Lavender from the pack hospital far behind him
