I cling onto the tree, still looking down at the wolf that I believe is Oliver. Fear swells in my chest as I glance from him to the lifeless body of the werebear, blood still trickling from the gash on its neck.
The brutal slaying turns my stomach. Sure I hunt and kill things, but I've never been this unmerciful. The flesh around its neck is ripped and shredded at the same time. While blood-covered chunks of loose tissue fall to the ground, continuously pooling onto the area around the fallen beast.
If he can do that to something that big with so much ease, what could he do to me? Can I trust him?
It almost seems like every man that has come into my life after my father died is stupidly powerful. Crevan killed my mother in one blow to her chest. Perhaps it was because she was weak, or
