Omrum's POV
The stolen life force of the winter stag swirled through my veins like a violent, intoxicating poison.
I stood entirely still in the quiet clearing, my hand still extended toward the shriveled, leathery carcass of the animal. The warmth that had flooded my body was unlike anything I had ever experienced as a werewolf. When a wolf eats, the hunger is satisfied through the tearing of flesh, the filling of the stomach, the slow process of digestion.
This was different. This was immediate. It was absolute.
I could feel the exact moments the stag’s vitality intersected with my own broken anatomy. The deep, jagged tears on my right thigh where the rogue's fangs had ripped through muscle down to the bone—tingled violently. Beneath the tattered fabric of my pants, the flesh bega
