Alcyde
The first sign comes three days after Sharon Littleton leaves with her reports and wounded pride—a headache that splits my skull like an axe through oak, followed by heat that crawls under my skin like fire ants building colonies in my veins. I'm in the training yard when it hits, sparring with Billy Joe, and my punch lands harder than intended, sending him sprawling in the dirt.
"Jesus Christ." He spits blood, working his jaw. "What the hell was that?"
The scent of his blood makes my wolf surge forward with hunger that has nothing to do with food. Protect. Dominate. Breed. The three imperatives that define rut, that turn thinking Alpha into something closer to the beasts our ancestors were before the moon goddess taught us to walk upright.
"Rut's coming." The words scrape m
