Lowell spits blood, his vision hazy, but his body refuses to fall. His breathing is ragged, his chest heaving from the bullet wounds scattered across his torso and the one deep in his chest. The pain barely registers. His Lycan blood burns through the damage, sealing the wounds almost as fast as they come. But he’s f*****g exhausted.
The bodies of Marco’s men litter the ground around him—ripped apart, their blood staining his claws, his face, his f*****g soul. He lost count of how many he killed.
But it’s not enough.
More men surround him, their guns clicking as they reload. Weaklings. They need weapons to fight him, but even bullets can’t put him down.
Marco watches from a distance, arms crossed, amused. “The bastard is enjoying this.” Nana mutters, watching as her body trembles in fe
