The silence that followed Silas’s declaration wasn't the silence of submission. It was the suffocating, heavy pause before a storm breaks.
I was kneeling in the frozen mud behind Silas, my hand clutched over the deep, jagged wound in my shoulder. Warm blood was soaking through my fingers, staining the snow a dark, violent crimson. The pain from Bram’s silver-tipped claymore was a white-hot brand, but the cold look in the eyes of the pack terrified me infinitely more.
Silas stood before them, his chest heaving, his claws still dripping with Bram’s blood. But as I looked at his broad back, I saw his massive shoulders trembling. His hand, the one not covered in blood, was shaking against his thigh. He hadn't just struck an enemy; he had torn open the throat of a man who had fought beside hi
