But for wolves to resort to this knife-in-the-back, cloak-and-dagger bullshit? It wasn’t natural. We were direct and forceful. We led by might and right, claw and fang. Poison and subterfuge were cowardice, trying to take down the powerful without risking yourself.
They’d crossed the wrong pack.
I sped up as I neared the forest edge, as the smell grew stronger. I was gaining on them, the scents gaining clarity as we got under the cover of tree limbs. Three wolves—all male, two alphas, one beta. I couldn’t tell pack affiliation from a scent, but I picked up hints of their individual musks, and committed them to memory as I ran faster and faster, cutting into the soft earth with my claws, flinging up clods of dirt as I wove between tree trunks, ears flattened and tail high as I hunted them
