The clearing hadn’t emptied. The Conclave never truly did after blood had been spilled.
The challenger’s broken body had been dragged off the stones, only streaks of crimson glittering on the ground in the firelight were left. Wolves licked the air hungrily, uneasy, their nerves taut between awe and revulsion. They murmured to one another in clumps, some howling her name with almost devotional hunger, others muttering of curses.
Marcus stood apart from the murmurs, his wolves pressed close to his side, his posture easy. Too easy. His smirk was a blade honed to perfection, and it gleamed in the firelight.
He hadn’t expected the girl to snarl. He hadn’t expected claws or fangs or the primal hunger that had poured out of her as she’d torn into her challenger. That part had rattled him. But
